Third Act - Qualquer ou Uma Grande Recompensa

Galbraith, who needed to catch a British Airways flight, had to spend two and a half hours at Portland International Airport. The wait didn't promise to be pleasant - by this time, such a crowd had formed in the building that it was completely incomprehensible to the inspector, unfamiliar with local orders, how people would even get on their planes. Leaving his suitcase in one of the waiting rooms, he headed to the second floor, where there were shops and cafes where he could buy a hamburger or coffee. Walking a little forward, Galbraith entered the establishment closest to the escalator - not least because he was attracted by the music playing there. The cafe was small, but quite cozy - the interior was dominated by purple and blue tones. On the walls hung curious paintings, made in the form of engravings, which depicted scenes from the life of the ancient Greeks.

Having taken a free table, the inspector looked around - besides him, there were two young people in the room who looked like Portuguese tourists. One of them was curly-haired and gloomy, the other, on the contrary, red-faced and talkative. They sat across from each other and played Xs and Os on a newspaper marked with a black marker in a six-by-six format. Sometimes these guys raised their heads and, exchanging short phrases in Portuguese, glanced in his direction. Galbraith began to look for the waiter. Finally, he saw a man walking slowly around the tables with some kind of tray. Having called out to him, the inspector involuntarily noticed that this man stood out strongly against the background of the interior - it was just strange to see in this room with a carefree atmosphere this tall and completely bald man, whose face seemed to be carved from granite. He was dressed simply and neatly - black trousers and a white shirt.

Galbraith would not have focused so much on these details, if this man gave his face, if not a smile, then at least just calm indifference, but instead the waiter's face was distorted by some kind of terrible grimace - as if he looked at every visitor as if he were a concentration camp prisoner who would soon be sent to the gas chamber. The bald spot only deepened this impression - although the inspector understood that even if this waiter had thick shoulder-length hair, his face would still remain the same... When the inspector's call reached the ears of this person, he turned to Galbraith's table and slowly walked up to him, after which, freezing two steps away from him, stared at the policeman with his own eyes. The inspector had suspicions that this guy clearly had problems with his gallbladder...

- Does this place serve coffee? - asked Galbraith, who wanted to relax at a table and drink his favourite drink.

The waiter, who continued to hold the plastic tray in his hands, did not answer, he only glared at the guest. The inspector involuntarily noticed that the pink colour of the tray in the hands of this maypole involuntarily gave his entire appearance a resemblance to a Greek statue on which some jokers had put a skirt and bra.

- I understand correctly that there is no coffee? - said Galbraith, who was tired of enduring this unblinking gaze.
- No coffee, - the waiter repeated his last words.

His voice sounded incredibly hoarse - the words seemed to come not from a human mouth, but from the speaker of a broken radio. The intonation like that of a automate only aggravated this feeling.

- Could I see menu please? - asked the inspector, who realized that talking to this waiter was like talking to a shoe box.

The waiter placed the tray directly on his table and walked towards the counter. Galbraith involuntarily began to look at the contents of the tray - there was a empty tea cup with a teaspoon sticking out of it, a saucer with bread crumbs and two crumpled napkins. Apparently, this should have been taken to the car wash, but the inspector unwittingly interfered with the waiter. Galbraith thought that the service in this cafe was simply disgusting - because he had never seen dirty dishes from a previous client being put on a new guest - they say, my hands are full, let him stand... Finally, the waiter returned to his table. He placed an A4 sheet of cardboard folded in the middle in front of the inspector and finally took away this impartial tray.

Galbraith took the cardboard sheet in his hands. Yes, the selection in this cafe was small - black tea, croissant without filling, some sweets (no indication, just "Sweets") and water. The inspector involuntarily glanced at the Portuguese sitting at the table. Now he understood why, instead of ordering food, they simply played Xs and Os - because rather than pay money for this, it’s better to sit hungry. Galbraith finally decided to order a cup of tea - not so much because he was very thirsty, he just thought that if he sat just like that, without food, then this gloomy waiter would decide to throw him out - they say, why are you sitting here if you don’t order anything?

- Can I have some black tea please? - the inspector shouted to the waiter, who, having gotten rid of the tray, returned empty-handed.

Bald maypole, nodding barely noticeably, left somewhere again. Galbraith had to wait ten minutes until his order was finally placed in front of him - a small tea cup, two-thirds full of a drink, not much different in colour from coffee. He raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip. The first feeling was that a tea bag was dipped into cold water and left for a day... Barely suppressing the urge to spit out this slop , he put the cup on the table and, sighing, stared at the ceiling. He didn't know how long he sat there, but when two Portuguese stood up from the table and walked past him towards the exit, he finally woke up and looked at his watch. Oh no, there's only a little time left before boarding the plane...

Galbraith got up from the table, on which the almost untouched tea continued to stand. The inspector ran to the escalator, trying not to throw off the little children running back and forth. Finally, he reached the security check area. The tedious procedure has begun - in front of beautiful young girls a thirty-one-year-old man had to take off his shoes and pull out his belt from his trousers... Galbraith involuntarily felt like an exhibitionist in a club for a representative of the womanhood. When these metal checks are finally over, he, trying to direct the blood flow back to the head, got into the relegation zone. Finally, Galbraith exhaled, here is the boarding gate.

Having gone down the stairs with other passengers, he found himself on the street, and, shivering from the cold - the wind was blowing - entered the bus, which, after travelling a few meters, stopped next to the Boeing. The ticket, which the inspector bought two weeks before the flight, was suspiciously cheap, and when Galbraith finally found himself inside this metal machine, then he understood why - he got a seat right at the very end of the plane, and right in the aisle. As a result, not only were his feet constantly being crushed by those going to the toilet, but he was also deprived of the pleasure of looking out the window. Well, okay, Galbraith thought, fastening his seat belts, as a policeman who serves the people, his fate is to endure all sorts of inconveniences for the sake of this very people...

On the left hand of the inspector sat two - some old man in a bowler hat who immediately began to doze at the porthole, and a skinny young guy, who, huddled in a chair, looked straight ahead. He looked no more than nineteen, twenty-one at most. The veins on his arms were so visible that it looked like he had transparent skin. Galbraith thought that this guy must be flying an airplane for the first time - so much uncertain appearance was at this yesterday's schoolboy. The inspector made himself more comfortable in his chair and wanted to read something, but remembering that his suitcase was in the luggage compartment, he abandoned this thought and, in order to at least occupy himself with something, began to look out the window. Unfortunately, nothing was visible behind the dozing old man. Galbraith sighed and followed the example of the skinny guy, simply staring at the back of his chair.

He didn't know how much time had passed since the plane took off - his thoughts were focused on the operation for which he was sent on this flight. Although, "sent" sounded a little wrong - in fact, he volunteered for this job himself, Portland Police Bureau just made an effort, to help him in this case, but the management itself kept in mind that in this outburst of Galbraith, feelings prevailed over logic, therefore the success of the operation - one might even say in its usefulness - no one took it seriously except Galbraith himself. Sitting like that in his seat, he noticed with his peripheral vision how a flight attendant walked past him, carrying a cart with cold drinks. The inspector raised his head and began to watch as the woman stopped at each passenger and, taking out disposable cups, filled them with one drink or another and gave them to the person asking. Galbraith wanted to ask for water - he felt his throat was dry. But just as he was about to open his mouth, the sight of that terrible tea that he was served in the Portland International Airport's cafe suddenly flashed before his eyes.

The sight of a cup filled with black liquid was so disgusting that he gave up the idea of asking the flight attendant for water. Therefore, when she turned in his direction, on her question "What will you drink?" he just silently shook his head, thinking about what he could endure until London. Then the woman turned to the thin guy, but he also just silently shook his head. Galbraith couldn't resist but think that this guy was imitating him. Then the old man woke up and, shaking his head as frightened birds usually do, asked the flight attendant for wine.

"Alcohol on a plane?" the inspector asked himself in bewilderment. Imagine his surprise when the flight attendant not only did not ask the passenger to change his decision, but, on the contrary, took a glass bottle that stood somewhere in the middle of the cardboard packages with juice and, pouring white wine into a plastic cup, handed it to the old man, who greedily extended his hand. Galbraith watched as he downed a small two hundred millilitres cup in one gulp and, grunting with pleasure, stuck it between the chairs. After consuming this drink, all sleep immediately disappeared from the old man for a while, and he, smiling, turned to the inspector:

- Hey, don't you think it looks very nice? - the old man was clearly in a good mood.
- Well, I’m just sitting, flying, not touching anyone, - Galbraith didn’t really want to talk, but he couldn’t ignore his fellow traveller...
- Fabelhaft! - the old man exclaimed in German.

Then, glancing out the porthole, he turned to him again.

- In what kind of cases are you flying on? - the old man said with attention.
- By personal, - Galbraith answered dryly.

"Don't tell this gaffer that a police inspector is sitting near to him", he thought to himself. The old man again uttered a joyful exclamation in German and, having said a couple of good words about the wine, dozed off again at the porthole. Galbraith only now noticed that while he was talking with the old man, the young guy continued to sit silently, pressed into a chair. He immediately started guessing - either this guy is mentally ill or he's just got his head in the clouds right now, not just heavenly, but narcotic... Having uttered the word "narcotic" to himself, Galbraith suddenly noticed a fleeting resemblance between the dozing old man and the doppelgaenger he had seen on the Portland's subway, before death of his friend Pharqraut. The similarities included, but were not limited to, the old man's arm hanging from the chair, as well as the fact that - apparently under the influence of alcohol - his lower jaw began to drop down. True, unlike that mysterious vision, it was clear from this old man that he just dozed off, when doppelgaenger on the contrary gave the impression of sleeping like the dead...

Giving himself up to these thoughts, Galbraith did not pay attention to how the flight was already coming to an end. A blue light came on in the cabin, and the inspector experienced a strange sensation - the internal organs seemed to jump inside his body, as if he were falling from a great height into the abyss... When the plane finally landed, from the invisible to the passengers speakers the voice of the pilot was heard, who said, so that people would not rush to get up from their chairs, but Galbraith was tired of sitting. He did not get up, but, contrary to the order, unfastened his seat belt (which was precisely what was forbidden to do). After a long ten minutes, the same voice, distorted by the speakers, finally deigned to tell the passengers that the pilot was saying goodbye to them and wishing them all the best.

The inspector got up, but it was far from the exit - because he was sitting at the very back of the plane, then he had to spend extra time moving forward one step at a time, trying not to hurt the others. Galbraith could not help but feel as if he were a stone that was slowly being carried along the river, with the only difference being that the river was alive and had a motley colour, and the stone, being also a living creature, felt tired and was angry. When he finally approached the exit of the plane, the flight attendant standing next to him smiled and said:

- We are always at your service.

The inspector involuntarily glanced at her. He thought how tired this pretty girl must have been of standing like that in a cramped space for almost twelve hours a day and with all her being expressing to complete strangers her readiness to fulfill their requests. Yes, it’s good that men are not hired as flight attendants - Galbraith himself personally would not have been able to stand wearing a mask of lies all day, pretending that he was not indifferent to some people with whom at any other time he would not even shake hands, let alone fulfill their whims... Stepping out onto the ramp, he involuntarily let out a sigh of relief - it was nice to finally be in the fresh air. While going down, he noticed that the sky was overcast with clouds. He frowned with displeasure - there was absolutely nothing good about getting caught in the rain and getting wet immediately upon arriving in another country - and since Galbraith did not take an umbrella with him, these were more than justified concerns...

Then followed a long and tedious fuss at London Heathrow Airport - the inspector didn’t even want to focus his thoughts on this, anyway, all he had to do was follow the crowd of other passengers and repeat their actions. Therefore, he turned on his brains only when, already with a suitcase in his hands, he stood at the exit from the airport. Galbraith looked around for a taxi. It’s good that on this day, even despite the weather, there was a crowd at the entrance. The inspector moved forward, and soon enough he saw a man standing next to his car and smoking a cigarette.

- Hello! - began Galbraith, approaching him, - Can you take me to the "Stait of Snow Lake"?

The taxi driver immediately got into the car. The inspector put the suitcase on the next chair and made himself comfortable.

- Do you mean the hotel on Queensborough Terrace? - asked the driver, turning on the ignition.
- Yes, - Galbraith answered briefly.

The taxi began to slowly leave the airport. The inspector wondered what this hotel would be like, in which his dear gentlemen patrons from the Portland Police Bureau had booked a room.

- Why did you choose such a lousy hotel? - suddenly a hoarse voice was heard.

Galbraith shuddered - but it was just a taxi driver who, still keeping his hands on the steering wheel, winked at him in the rear view mirror. This sudden question of his pulled the inspector out of the whirlpool of his thoughts, and for a while he stopped thinking about his problems.

- Lousy? What do you mean? - the inspector was surprised.
- When you booked a hotel, didn’t you look at its rating? - the driver seemed to be reproaching his passenger.
- Well... I looked at only the price, - Galbraith waved him off.

He didn't choose this hotel... The taxi driver, having heard his answer, launched into loud spatial reflections regarding the fact that Mr. Foreigner had made a mistake, and he said this with the intonation with which a teacher scolds a guilty student. Galbraith is tired of listening to this expatiation.

- I don't like tourists, - he replied in a familiar tone. - And if this hotel is as bad as you say, it means that I will essentially be alone there.
- Oh you misanthrope! - his interlocutor answered almost with a fatherly intonation.

Galbraith couldn't help but laugh at this definition. The taxi driver also followed suit, and the conversation stopped for a while.

After five minutes of silence, the taxi driver, without taking his hands off the steering wheel, sniffled. The inspector saw in the rear view mirror how a grin appeared on the man’s wrinkled face.

- I think I guessed why you chose this hotel, - he said in a knowing tone.
- Well, why? - Galbraith asked curiously.
- According to the advertising brochures, then in one of his rooms stopped a certain person...

And the London driver named the name of one writer, which was well known to everyone who had been interested in American literature at least once in their life. His passenger scratched his moustache and shook his head. The taxi driver took this as a sign that Galbraith allowed him to continue the babbling - he sighed noisily, and after a short pause said:

- I completely agree with you! - at the same time he smiled.
- Sorry, I'm not sure what you mean... - Galbraith didn't understand.
- I'm talking about, - the driver interrupted him. - That this paper shifter doesn't honour to the hotel to which I am taking you now!

There was genuine resentment in the man's voice.

- That is not what I said, - protested Galbraith, who was already starting to get tired of the driver’s tone.
- I would even say that he only disgraces this establishment, exacerbating the already low level of service, - the taxi driver spoke louder and louder.
- Just keep calm, for God's sake... - the passenger asked without much hope.
- Because this is not a writer, - the man behind the wheel was already shouting. - This is a businessman! He just hit the mother lode, and he doesn’t care about the level of education of his readership!
- As much as possible... - the inspector, listening to this expatiation, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
- On the contrary, he indulges the basest instincts of the most primitive and backward sectors of the population, you will see this for yourself now! - the driver didn't let up.

Galbraith realized that it was pointless to try to calm this Englishman, who imagined that he knew a lot about writers better than all the members of the League of American Writers combined. So the policeman simply assumed an indifferent look and leaned his head back on the seat.

- Just listen, - the taxi driver spoke in the tone of a strict teacher. - What did I read on the very first page of his book! "White b***h had taken it in the mouth again", - with barely restrained rage he quoted to the entire interior of the car

At these words, Galbraith involuntarily opened his eyes.

- Please, don't use bad language, - he tried to shame the man.

But the interlocutor ignored his words.

- On the very first page, first! - as if reading out a court verdict, the taxi driver continued excitedly. - Taking that book in my hands, I was going to get some food for thought, but its pages greeted me with the slang of ill-mannered teenagers!

His passenger, who was gradually beginning to be amused by these shouts, looked up at the driver's seat.

- One might think, - he began in a calm tone. - That you expected from the mystical horror genre something sublime and refined, - having said this, the inspector yawned and stared out the window.
- Expected? - the driver yelled. - This has got to be usual state of affairs! Do you know the writer Lem? - he suddenly turned to the passenger.
- Lem... - Galbraith said thoughtfully.

He began to turn over in his head the names of all those whom he had read in his youth. No one with that last name came to his mind.

- I repeat, does the name of Lem mean anything to you? - the driver's eyes blinked several times.

"He might even get a heart attack", - thought the inspector, and he felt embarrassed.

- Well, - he began, - I read the novel "Motlys" by a writer with a similar surname, certain Steinar Lem.

In fact, it was a lie - he had never picked up such a book, he had only seen its title on one of the Norwegian bestseller lists. The driver turned back to the steering wheel. The dissatisfied sniffle he made convinced Galbraith that the old man did not like his answer at best, and at worst was perceived as an affront. But he finally stopped having literary debates with the passenger. Apparently, the fact that the inspector knew the namesake of his favourite writer allowed the taxi driver to feel some respect for him. This was confirmed by the man’s slightly animated look, as well as by the fact that the next fifteen minutes of the trip from the London Heathrow Airport to the hotel "Stait of Snow Lake" building passed in complete silence.

When the car brought the police inspector to its destination, the taxi driver pressed the brake and leaned out of the window. After admiring the two women walking towards him for a few seconds, the old man's face lit up and he said triumphantly "Ninety pounds sterling". His passenger nodded silently and took out the money.

- That's it, I brought you to this pigsty! - after payment the taxi driver said in a sympathetic tone.
- Do you feel sorry for me? - Galbraith asked him cheerfully, pulling the suitcase out of the car.
- Not really, - after a pause, the man said.

The inspector got out of the car and was about to close the door, but the driver, again sticking his head out of the window, looked up at him.

- If you don’t like this hotel, then don’t be angry that I brought you there! - there was a pleading in his words.
- Think nothing of it! - said the inspector even more cheerfully.

He waved to the driver, who was already driving away. Then he turned on his heel and, sighing, looked at the building. The first thing that caught Galbraith's eye was the sign hanging above the door - a simple rectangular wooden plate painted white. On it was written in thick red letters "Stait of Snow Lake". A tourist from Portland couldn't help but think that this sign must have been drawn by the hotel owner's child - the letters were so clumsy. Not a good start for today, flashed through his mind.

Galbraith pulled the door towards himself and stepped over the threshold. There was only one person in the cool check-in area - no longer young men in a well-worn frock coat. He stood behind an unassuming-looking counter and looked boredly fingering the playing cards lying in front of him. However, at the sight of Galbraith entering, he immediately abandoned this activity and stood at attention in front of the guest.

- Good morning, and welcome to our hotel! - the receptionist shouted in an incredibly solemn tone and saluted.

Looking at this, the inspector thought that this man had apparently served in the army before - there was some kind of agility in him, which could be an echo of the young years spent on the military parade ground. Unvoluntarily contemplating the receptionist, Galbraith almost forgot about it, that he needs to be given a booking slip. With this thought, the guest put the suitcase on the floor and pulled out his wallet. When the old man in a frock coat took a small piece of paper from Galbraith's hands and unfolded it in his hands, lights seemed to light up in his eyes. He began to study this nondescript piece of paper with such curiosity, what the inspector involuntarily thought, that was indicated there not some dull data about the room and check-in dates, but all of him, Galbraith, is the ins and outs. What was missing, he thought, was for the receptionist to suddenly refuse to let him check in. Fortunately, this did not happen.

- Can I see your documents? - the receptionist looked up Galbraith.

The inspector's heart felt lighter. He gave the man his blue, with gold letters passport. The receptionist took it in his hands. When he opened it, the mischievous lights lit up in his eyes again. The old man in the frock coat opened the first page, and, running his eyes over it, suddenly turned to Galbraith:

- Well, you're like the prodigal son! - he said as if he had made an unexpected discovery.
- I'm embarrassed to ask what? - the inspector said in bewilderment.
- You changed your place of residence to America, but now you have returned to the bosom of your homeland! - the receptionist continued.

Oh, yes, the column "place of birth"... Galbraith began to search for words - he, of course, understood that the hotel receptionist’s words were just a joke, but it seemed to the inspector that it was better to play it safe and explain himself to this man, on whom where he would spend the night in this country would depend.

- You see, I just couldn't find a job in Gloucester in my field, so I decided to move abroad, - Galbraith began to make excuses confusedly.

It wasn't until he said it that it dawned on him how stupid that excuse was - after all, if the interlocutor had decided to inquire about what "field" he could be talking about, then it could bubbled to the surface that Galbraith is actually the inspector of Portland's police, and then incognito would have collapsed. But fortunately for him, the receptionist was satisfied with this answer, and, having returned the passport to the owner, he turned around and began rummaging through the lockers. Galbraith, taking advantage of the fact that the old man turned his back to him, allowed himself to wipe the sweat that had appeared on his forehead from excitement.

- Here, take the room key, - the receptionist turned back.

The inspector accepted a nondescript-looking key with a key fob from his hands. The old man in a frock coat began to say something about the peculiarities of living in their hotel, talked about the cleaning schedule, changing towels and much more, but Galbraith, who felt tired, ignored his words. The only thing he remembered was that since he rented a "Room Only", he would have to eat outside the hotel.

- How much all this jazz cost? - said Galbraith, opening his wallet.

The receptionist, taking out a calculator, told the guest that for one night at the "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel they pay about sixty pounds sterling. Galbraith waited patiently while the old man, who didn't wear glasses, poked at the buttons on the electronic device. In the end, the amount that this little device brought out was about four hundred and fifty pounds sterling. Not bad, the inspector thought, putting a thick stack of bills on the counter. The receptionist took the money with lightning speed and, without even counting it, put it in his pocket. A crazy thought flashed through Galbraith’s head about how much of this money would be spent on the hotel itself, and not on the entertainment of the old man himself.

Then the receptionist came out from behind the counter and beckoned the guest to follow him. As they walked towards the stairs, Galbraith could not help but think that if his patrons from the Portland Police Bureau were aware of life in London, they probably would not have booked him a room in this hotel, which by its very appearance signalled that the person who ended up here needed to be on guard.

- We don't have an elevator, so go upstairs on your own, - the receptionist said unctuously.

The old man in the frock coat pointed towards the stairs with an inviting gesture and, pretending that he did not see Galbraith’s displeased look, returned to the check-in area. The inspector's dissatisfaction was that he, tired after the flight, was not ready to drag his suitcase up the steps. After watching the receptionist go, Galbraith began to go upstairs, reassuring himself that he was, after all, a policeman, not an ox girl. Having reached the fourth floor and taking a breath, he opened the door to his room.

From what was revealed to his gaze, Galbraith was, to put it mildly, not happy - it was enough to look at the shabby bedside table to understand that the administrator clearly did not spend a pound on updating the furniture in the rooms. It only got worse - having taken off his jacket, the inspector was about to put his suitcase on a chair, but imagine his surprise when it turned out that there was not a single representative of this important piece of furniture in the room. Therefore, with annoyance, he had to put the suitcase on the shoe bench. Further more, all the lampshades hanging on the ceiling were covered with such a thick layer of rust that it seemed as if they were exhibit from the Iron Age.

The inspector went to the bathroom, which was combined with a toilet. He noted with dissatisfaction that the walls of the toilet were covered with a red coating. When he wanted to lock the shabby wooden door, he had to be very careful, because the latch almost did not hold and, it seemed, could fall to the floor at any second. Galbraith did his dirty work and, having rinsed himself off, was about to go out, but the door stuck. He fought for almost three minutes with the latch, which seemed to have a mind of its own and did not want to let out the man who had betrayed his homeland for the sake of life in Das gelobte Land.

When the jammed latch finally deigned to make concessions to the human and released the inspector to freedom, Galbraith was already so tired that he did not unpack his things, but immediately went to the bed. Having undressed, he reached under the blanket and noticed with irritation that the sheet was burned by a cigarette, and the duvet cover had a hole. Pulling the blanket over himself, he thought about asking tomorrow for his bed linen to be changed. Be that as it may, the inspector was so tired after the flight that as soon as he closed his eyes, he immediately fell asleep.

In his dream, Galbraith found himself in a room somewhat similar to a hotel in a country cottage - a well-furnished room with many pieces of furniture, of which the carpets on the walls immediately caught his eye, a shelf with antique sabers, a huge wardrobe with books, decorated with stucco a fireplace (in which for some reason there was a crumpled sheet of paper lying around) and one window, curtained so thickly that the only source of light in the room was a small stearine candle standing on the lacquered top of the table, at which Galbraith himself sat on a simple wooden chair. Opposite him he saw mister chief inspector Schaeymoure - who was dressed in a cream-coloured sweater, under which one could see the collar of a white shirt, decorated with a silk tie. He kept his hands under the table, making his whole figure seem stooped, although Schaeymoure was far from a frail man, which slightly confused Galbraith, who looked straight into the interlocutor’s face, but the weak candlelight did not make it possible to properly examine the features of his face.

For some time the two of them sat motionless opposite each other, intently peering into each other's eyes. In the silence that stood in this place, some vague tension was felt, as if each of the interlocutors was about to attack the other, but could not decide. When the quiet became completely unbearable, Galbraith turned his gaze to the wall where hung the antique sabers and daggers - not because he was going to take possession of the weapon, but because he wanted to break this onerous eye contact for a minute. But suddenly, as if noticing this movement of his eyeballs, mister chief inspector gaved his voice, and Galbraith had to look up at his interlocutor again.

- From the height of my life experience, - Schaeymoure began in his usual impartial tone - I see how far you are from the true state of affairs. If you don't mind, I'll share with you some of my thoughts regarding your challenge.

The soft, senile voice of mister chief inspector had a calming effect on Galbraith. For a while, he began to trust him, completely forgetting how suspicious the place where the two of them were at the moment was. The inspector did not object to Schaeymoure's words and, without further questions, accepted his proposal with silent submission.

- The case you are currently investigating, - the interlocutor continued. - Has an unusual purview. The question it poses goes far beyond methodological and legal problems. I believe that the issues involved in this case are in an area that the police most often do not think about, - at these words he paused.

Galbraith, listening to Schaeymoure, only now noticed that the facial muscles of his interlocutor never contracted, despite the stream of words spewed from his lips. Cheeks, cheekbones and lips of mister chief inspector were completely motionless, as if he had not spoken at all. Galbraith tried to look at his eyes in order to understand something, but the darkness in the room hid everything except the trembling pale light of a candle, the light of which allowed him to see only the surface of the table and the jaws of the sitting on the other side man.

- It's about faith, - continued mister chief inspector. - But not the Lord God, as you might think, and a delinquent.

This estimation of Schaeymoure was so inconsistent with the usual worldview of his interlocutor that Galbraith immediately wanted to ask the question that had been on his tongue from the very beginning of their conversation, but as soon as he tried to open his mouth, he suddenly noticed with horror that his tongue seemed to stuck to the sky and he cannot make a sound. Galbraith immediately fell into a panic, not understanding what was happening. And the senile voice continued to be heard from behind the tightly closed lips of mister chief inspector, which gave the impression that it was not a live voice, but a recording on a magnetic tape, played by a invisible in the darkness cassette recorder.

- Doctor Baselard committed a crime, - Schaeymoure continued. - I admit that this is an irrefutable fact. But has the thought ever occurred to you, that he did his deed for your own sake? Just like a whale cannot live in the ocean without plankters, so a policeman cannot exist in a society without a perpetrator.

Galbraith felt uneasy from these words. To the panic that gripped him was added an irrational feeling of shame, as if he was uncomfortable with the fact that, as it turned out, the whole world revolved around his modest person, even if it was a world of cruds and criminals. Looking away from his interlocutor, he suddenly noticed that the curtain hanging in front of the window was sticking out a little forward, as if it was pulled over a large object, the size of a man. With his eyes bulging, Galbraith peered into the curtain for several seconds, and although he was unable to see the exact outlines in the darkness, the thought immediately arose in his head that, in addition to him and mister chief inspector, there was another person in the room, who for the time being did not decide to show himself on the eyes.

- There must exist in the world constabulary and coffins, before whom they are obliged to perform their service, - Schaeymoure's even voice came. - In the crime of doctor Baselard lies your serenity, and in his person - salvation.

As if in response to these words, the curtains moved, and Galbraith saw the silhouette of a short and fat man flash in the darkness. The unknown person immediately stood behind Schaeymoure, and the inspector saw a familiar jacket and trousers, albeit somewhat blurred in the dark - the same ones that doctor Baselard was wearing at the moment when he found him at the entrance. But Galbraith was in no hurry to admit that this strange subject was the doctor, because, apart from the same garments, this man did not give the impression of an old and shabby man; on the contrary, under the clothes one could discern a strong, muscular body, and the stranger’s movements were filled with energy.

- And that's why you'll never catch him, - mister chief inspector continued. - After all, with his capture, your own existence will come to its logical end. And there is no mistake in my words - the whole thing about the young lady who died after doctor Baselard's surgery, is not so much an event of the present as a harbinger of the future. More precisely, it's the omen, - he emphasized the last words.

Galbraith wanted to ask whether mister chief inspector himself understood what exactly is the omen with Delia's death was, but at the same moment the stranger sharply jerked his hand, and Schaeymoure's head separated from his neck. But it could not be called beheading, because decapitation is possible only with a living creature, while in place of the mister chief inspector's neck, instead of an obvious bloody wound, the smooth surface of polished wood glistened. And when the head itself, instead of falling to the floor, began to perform intricate pirouettes in the air, it became clear to Galbraith that the stranger had pulled the lever of the crane, to which the head was attached by a invisible in the darkness nylon line.

However, there was no time to reflect on what was happening - the wooden head of mister chief inspector flew madly across the room, threatening to hit anyone who gets in her way, while a headless mannequin in a Schaeymoure's suit disappeared from the chair with the sound of a timber falling to the floor. Left alone with the stranger still hidden in the darkness, Galbraith could not help but feel a certain timidity and even something like respect in front of him - in any case, for organizing this whole affair with a artificial dummy of a mister chief inspector and a tape recording of his speech. It was completely unclear why, and, most importantly, for whom all this was being done, but Galbraith considered it unnecessary to ask about it - still he could not utter a word, because his tongue did not obey him. Trying to get up from the table, he almost lost his balance and suddenly noticed how a ligneous Schaeymoure's head flew over the table and hit the candle standing on it - at that very second the flame went out, and the room became truly dark...

Waking up the next day, Galbraith was involuntarily taken aback when he saw around him, instead of his native apartment, the unaccustomed interior of a "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel, but this was only a fleeting moment of confusion. Pondering his nightmare, he decided that the phantasmagorical nature of his events was explained by the fact that the human brain, after flying from one continent to another, adapted to new conditions in order to be ready to perceive everything that it would have to face in an essentially unfamiliar country. The first thing Galbraith wanted to do after sleep was to wash himself and brush his teeth. He started to go to the bathroom, but remembering that he had forgotten to take out his toothbrush since yesterday, he went to his suitcase with some annoyance. Having opened it, the inspector squatted down and began rummaging through its contents. The item he was looking for turned out to be at the very depths of the suitcase. Taking out a toothbrush, Galbraith involuntarily drew attention to a stack of white sheets - it was the materials on the case of his friend Pharqraut, which he conducted before his death. Sighing, the policeman took the papers out of his suitcase and, putting them on the desk, went to get himself in order.

After washing himself, Galbraith left the bathroom, wiping his face with a towel as he walked. Looked at the desk again. "Yes", he thought, "I've been putting off reading this document all this time..." He hung the towel on the doorknob and, taking a stack of papers in his hands, stretched out on the bed - because there was nowhere to sit in this hotel room. The Inspector began to read this magnum opus for the first time since its author personally handed it to Galbraith in the office of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure. On the first pages there was a short introduction in which Pharqraut indicated that he was led to the topic of the investigation by the words of the culturologist Japhet Byrnes, friend and colleague of Jordan Thurlow.

The point was that when the inspector interrogated mister Byrnes about his harassment of a certain Delia, daughter of pharmaceutist Yonce, he denied everything, but Pharqraut remembered how, during interrogation, Japhet admitted that that on that fateful day he wrote down a few words from the little girl in his notebook. When the inspector asked for what purposes, mister Byrnes, after a little hesitation, admitted to the policeman that in his opinion, for people who have Greek names, life always turns out in a rather sad way. When Pharqraut asked for an example, Japhet replied that the Inspector would simply need to go through the list of deaths to see that among the dead there were a lot of people with names of Greek origin. After reading these lines, Galbraith could not help but notice that mister Byrnes apparently had the makings of a person working with statistics, and wondered why he, despite everything, decided to choose the profession of culturologist, and not go, for example, to a market research institute, where he could direct his abilities in the right direction.

Galbraith's thoughts returned to Pharqraut, with whom he had studied together at the Portland Police Academy and even shared the same dorm room. Drawing parallels with Jordan Thurlow's colleague, the inspector couldn't help but remember that his own friend's fate was much the same - since childhood, Pharqraut dreamed of becoming a writer, and he became a policeman because he concluded that if he writes some book, and readers say that his work offends some of their feelings, then barely-literate to the end life cannot wash away the shame.

In the context of this, Galbraith recalled an episode from their student life. One Sunday afternoon, Pharqraut, alone with him in his favourite cafe, began to tell his friend about how, while still a student at the University of Portland (where he entered precisely in order to study to be a writer), for the credit he wrote a story based on Oscar Fingal O'Fflahertie Wills Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray". Galbraith still remembered the contents of his friend’s work, although he didn’t even pick it up - but sometimes it happens that a work told out loud sinks into the soul much more powerfully than something read by the person himself. This was the case with Pharqraut's story, which the failed writer gave the somewhat immodest and pretentious name "Dorian Red". In fact, it was a curious reworking of that part of the book where James Vane returns from Australia to England...

Pharqraut, using the same characters of the great Irish playwright, forced them to act according to his plot. According to the plan of the future American inspector, When James Vane disembarks from a ship in an English port, he is immediately recruited into the headquarters of the revolutionaries, who, in order to test sailor's abilities, give him the task of killing Dorian Gray - who, as stated in the original work, had the reputation of a famous hedonist among young people. As in the original, James Vane is accidentally killed by the bullet of Sir Geoffrey Clouston - brother of Duchess Monmouth. But what followed this moment had a rather strange continuation, which was completely inconsistent with the events that took place on the pages of the original work. Death of Sibyl Vane's brother does not get away with Sir Geoffrey Clouston, as it was planned by the classic of English literature. In the reworking of the American student, this, on the contrary, causes a strong reaction among those who recruited James Vane.

As Pharqraut wrote, the workers organize an ambush on the road along which brother of Duchess Monmouth was travelling to his misfortune. The revolutionaries attack Sir Geoffrey Clouston's carriage and, having killed the owner, going to London. This news quickly reaches the English aristocrats, who, realizing that this is a "The Omen of Uprising" from the proletarian class, decide to unleash the entire police force on the rioters. Meanwhile, the ringleaders of the rebellion are already arriving in the metropolis and going to the working-class neighbourhoods, where they call on people to take to the streets and go to the main square. Soon all the labor of London are heading there in an avalanche, simultaneously burning everything in their path with the fire of revolution. Pharqraut ended his story with the fact that Dorian Gray, looking at how the capital was burning in flames, decides that he does not want to die at the hands of the workers and, as in the original work, runs to the attic, where he sticks a knife into the portrait and dies.

Galbraith was then amazed that how his friend even think of finding revolutionary overtones in the novel, which was essentially a hymn to hedonism. Pharqraut responded that the teachers at the University of Portland were also at a loss when he presented them with the manuscript of this story for credit. Only their surprise resulted in the fact that the next day the student was expelled from the alma mater in disgrace under the pretext that his work was propaganda of communism. Pharqraut said that with his story he wanted to convey the idea of when the death of some inconspicuous person - in his case, the unfortunate sailor James Vane - leads to something global. But alas, in the heads of the teachers, as the future inspector bitterly noted, there seemed to be only thoughts about looking for subtext associated with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics even where it actually does not exist. Galbraith involuntarily remembered that in 1981 (when he actually entered the police academy), the Soviet Union was still a serious threat to the rest of the world, and the feeling that the next day would not come due to a possible nuclear strike sometimes haunted a man in those early days...

The inspector was still lying in bed, his legs thrown over the headboard. Despite the fact that he had intended to read the papers on the Pharqraut's case, he couldn't help but think about their author himself. "Yes", Galbraith thought, "I'm only thirty-one years old, but sclerosis is already progressing..." Suddenly he felt a sharp feeling of hunger. The last time he ate - if a sip of tea can be called a meal - still in America, at Portland International Airport. The policeman, with some reluctance, lowered his feet to the floor and, sitting on the bed, accidentally dropped the sheets of paper on the floor. "I've become a total wreck", he thought to himself again. Galbraith sank to the floor - the papers, which, not being fastened together, scattered in all directions. He began to collect them, but since he did not know their order, he simply took one sheet after another and, having collected them all in one pile, put it on the desk. At the end of this task, he exhaled - it was not very easy for him to climb on the floor for papers - and headed to the window, curtained with tulle curtains. Moving them aside, Galbraith came close to the window sill and began to look at the urban landscape spread out under the window.

He looked at the cars passing on the road. In the morning sun they looked as if they were cast from some shiny material - the inspector couldn't even find words, he was so fascinated by this spectacle. He couldn't understand why this ordinary sight attracted him so much, it was probably because the cars he saw in Portland bore little resemblance to those driving on the streets of London. Looking at the traffic, Galbraith suddenly caught himself thinking that he had involuntarily perceived the street as a toy table, and the figures of cars - for toys that drive at the will of an invisible child who switches the buttons on the radio remote control. Perhaps the reason could be that the policeman had not yet fully woken up, and the movements of the cars, too fast for his sleepy eyes, looked ragged, without the smoothness usual for the real world. He eventually witnessed a truck crash into a red convertible.

- That's it, kid, your car is broken, now you'll have to beg your dad to buy you a new toy, - said Galbraith, as if addressing a child.

The wrong meaning of his own words only dawned on him when the truck cab door suddenly opened and the driver jumped out - Only at this moment did Galbraith come to his senses from his trance and realized that what was in front of his eyes was not a simulation, but the real world, and that a real accident had actually happened below, not game with toy cars. "Yes", Galbraith thought, "I'll develop a God Complex if I treat what's happening around me like that". On the other hand, what does he care about this accident? Yes, he is a servant of law and order, but of a completely different country - in London, he is essentially just an ordinary tourist, who has even fewer rights than any native Englishman.

Galbraith hurriedly moved away from the window - It's one thing when cars are driving peacefully outside, and quite another when a tragedy unfolds on the road - as he remembered, the truck had destroyed almost the entire front part of the convertible, so Galbraith had great doubts that the poor fellow had managed to survive. The inspector got dressed and left the room into the corridor. He remembered that he had booked as Room Only, so willy-nilly he would have to eat in some restaurant. Not a big deal, Galbraith thought as he walked down the stairs - in this "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel he had already seen so many things that went beyond the norm that the mere thought that he would also try local food made him feel disgusted.

Having gone downstairs, he left the hotel and, turning up the collar of his jacket - for, despite the sun, a cold wind was blowing here - he walked forward, not really understanding where the narrow streets of this quarter would lead him. The inspector noted with unpleasant surprise that a walk through the streets of London was a real test for his eardrums. The fact is that Galbraith was used to the fact that there weren't very many cars on the streets of Portland, and therefore the streets there were quite quiet. Here, it seemed, the air was simply filled with noise - and even in the alleys, where no major roads were visible, the sound of cars did not subside. He began to suspect that some kind of turbines were buried under the asphalt, because what else could be the source of the hum - not radiation, after all...

As he wandered through the streets, he couldn't help thinking fondly about his room in that terrible hotel - for at least there he was in quiet. Galbraith was hungry, so he was in no hurry to go back, but after the streets of London the wretched room in the "Stait of Snow Lake" seemed to him in different colours. "I'll come back", he thought, "And will enjoy the silence". Suddenly Galbraith felt small drops begin to fall on him. He looked up and was involuntarily surprised - he did not expect at all that during the time he spent on his morning walk, clouds had already appeared in the sun. "I need some shelter from the rain", the inspector thought, and in connection with this he involuntarily remembered how in Portland he got drunk in a bar to celebrate and then stood like a statue in the pouring rain. No, now getting wet in the rain was absolutely not an option - after all, he was at home there, but here is an unfamiliar country, plus the hotel does not inspire respect...

With these thoughts, Galbraith, not really understanding where his feet were taking him, entered the first door he came across. He managed to see the neon sign - it was written there "Orcinus Orca Osteria". Looking at these thin pink letters, he noticed a lucky coincidence that just when it started to rain, he came across an establishment where he could have a bite to eat. The room where Galbraith went to hide from the rain was twilight. But this did not look like a deliberate stylistic decision by the owner of the osteria - a much more likely explanation for this darkness was the banal laziness of the proprietor to replace long-burnt out light bulbs. The inspector stopped at the threshold to look around. Suddenly the silence was broken by someone's very impudent voice:

- Who is that has come upon us? - clearly, as if in a public speaking course, said a man invisible to Galbraith.

The inspector involuntarily shuddered. He turned his head in the direction where this indiscreet question came from. The source of these words turned out to be some middle-aged man with a beer belly - Galbraith involuntarily winced when he saw his torn jeans and green jacket stained with white paint stains. Fatso lounged on a chair, and, leaning his right hand on the table, brought his free hand to his eyes to adjust his glasses, which, against the background of his fat face, looked frankly odd - like they were on a pig and not a human.

- Somebody turn on the lights! I do not see who is that has come! - the bespectacled boar continued in the same tone.

Galbraith was disgusted to hear this, he had a stupid feeling as if he had stepped onto the podium for this impartial person. He, barely restraining himself from breaking into this impudent guy, approached him and asked:

- Are you enjoying watching me? - he tried to speak as calmly as possible, although inside he was seething with rage.

Instead of answering, the man jumped up from his seat with unexpected agility for such a corpulent.

- Whoa-whoa, take it easy, - Galbraith said calmly, as if giving a command to an animal.
- Hey, have you gone nuts? - the fatso slowly backed away, streams of sweat running down his face.
- Why are you shouting at visitors like crazy? - the inspector asked him, continuing to approach.
- I can do that, I'm the director of this establishment! - the bespectacled boar said bravely.

Galbraith heard footsteps behind him and immediately turned around. Behind him stood a mustachioed, middle-aged, thin waiter, whose eyes darted furtively around. He recoiled involuntarily as the stern-faced policeman stared straight at him.

- Enough of that, stop! - the fatso yelled. - I certainly don't need for you to waste us all!
- Well, you're right, - the inspector readily agreed with him.

Galbraith relaxed and sat down at the table where the director had previously sat.

- What'll it be, sir? - the waiter said in a bleating voice.
- So, what's good here? - Galbraith answered a question with a question.

He immediately did not like the unctuous notes of this old man, whom he was looking at with suspicion at that moment. Instead of answering, the waiter threw a menu on the table - the guest immediately thought that the service here was clearly not so good. But he did not leave the establishment - at the moment his stomach was dominated on his brain. Having opened the menu, the inspector began to carefully study it while the waiter continued to looking over his shoulder.

While Galbraith was running his eyes over the list of dishes, two people entered the room of "Orcinus Orca Osteria" - a man and a woman. The inspector caught them out of the corner of his eye, but, being busy drawing up an order, did not particularly concentrate his attention on them. But he could not help but ignore the fact that both of these guests looked extremely unsightly - they both had messy long hair and their dirty black clothes looked like they were a couple sizes too big. Standing on the threshold, they, like mongrels, began to shake furiously all over their bodies, and drops of rainwater hanging on their clothes flew to the sides.

By that time, Galbraith had already made his choice - he wanted something liquid and also something with meat. In the end, he settled on cream soup of fresh champignons and fettuccine with chicken and tomato. It's not that these were his favourite culinary preferences, he just decided that these were the most high-calorie dishes on the menu of this establishment. Galbraith told the waiter his order, and he nodded slightly and finally moved away from his table. The inspector wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but then a couple of beggars suddenly made themselves known. They approached the bar, behind which stood the cashier - a man in the prime of his life with red sideburns on his cheeks.

- Gimme proceeds! - said a man with a puffy face and long black hair brazenly.
- You will receive a reward for alms! - bleated his girlfriend, dressed in such a large dress that it seemed as if she was wrapped in a shroud.

Galbraith was disgusted to see this - but he couldn't help but become interested. "After all, there was a time when people looked at freaks", he thought...

- You're so brave, - the cashier smiled. - Come on, get it!

Wherein he made a strange hand gesture, as if he had an invisible wad of bills in his hand. The beggars repeated their request again, only this time the woman flirtatiously twirled her whole body in front of the cashier. "That's the last thing I'm need here", thought Galbraith. He had already begun to regret coming here, but he had to wait for the order, so he had no choice but to sit in the hall of "Orcinus Orca Osteria", where some kind of circus of madmen was happening before his eyes.

- We're having socks! - the beggar maid suddenly shouted high.
- No doubt, but what of that? - the cashier asked her in a flirtatious tone.
- She wants sell sox to you! - the pauper with a puffy face blurted out loudly, as if addressing a dumb kid.

"Well", thought the inspector, looking at this, "Selling clothes under the counter, probably also stolen"... He was curious what next action the cashier with the red sideburns would take. Deep down, he hoped that he would going to knock their out of there..

- Okay, I'm on it. Show me the goods, - said the cashier, scratching his prickly cheek.
- And you gimme leg, your leg! - the beggar maid croaked.
- Wait, what's this for? - asked the cashier, but from his tone it seemed like he didn't really mind.
- She needs to understand what size you are! - the pauper muttered again in an explanatory tone.

While this scene was playing out at the counter, a waiter approached Galbraith. He placed a plate of cream soup of fresh champignons in front of the inspector and, nodding mockingly, left. Galbraith took the spoon and started eating. Not bad, he thought, not a culinary masterpiece, but not some kind of sandwich either.... He ate and continued to watch the circus that was happening not far from his table. Man with red sideburns had already raised his leg straight up on the bar. The pauper told him to take off his shoe, and the cashier completely disappeared behind the counter - apparently, he actually bent down to take off his shoes. "What nonsense", Galbraith thought, having almost finished the soup.

- Here's your second order, - he heard the waiter's voice.

With these words, he placed a new dish in front of the inspector. Galbraith pushed away the now empty bowl of soup and, looking at what they brought him, stared at the waiter, who continued to stand nearby.

- What did you bring me? - the inspector asked sternly, without a hint of a smile.
- Your order, what else? - mumbled the mustachioed man, whose eyes were spinning feverishly in their sockets.
- I ordered the fettuccine with chicken and tomato. And what did you give me? - Galbraith continued without changing his tone.

The plate that stood in front of him contained regular spaghetti, topped with tomato paste. There was no chicken visible there - although who knows, if he picked this dish with a fork, maybe he found a tiny piece of chicken skin at the very bottom...

- Please enter the venue! - the waiter began in a vile, unctuous tone, whose eyes began to spin even faster
- I don't care... - the inspector began, but the waiter did not let him finish.
- The owner's son is now cooking in the kitchen, a wonderful boy, he is studying at culinary college, - the thin man spoke hurriedly, almost drooling.
- ...who makes my food there... - Galbraith tried to get the word out.
- And so I ask you to be merciful to the boy, because this is his first day at work! - it seemed like the waiter was about to fall to his knees.
- I paid you for this, - the inspector pointed his finger at the plate, - About fifty pounds sterling! And I want to get what I ordered, not some sludge by relative of the owner of your establishment! - Galbraith said firmly, glaring at the waiter with a stern look

With these words he stood up from the table and, glancing at the counter - where the cashier showed off to the beggars his leg, covered with mycosis blisters - resolutely moved towards the door. The waiter did not remain in debt, he scurried after Galbraith, like a cowardly jackal after a brave tiger.

- You that, did not like? - the waiter said in a fawning tone.
- YES! - the inspector said loudly and firmly and pulled the door towards him.
- Wait, I get it know! - yelled a man with shifty eyes.

Already standing on the street, Galbraith turned around. He saw how the waiter, loudly stamping his feet, ran deeper into the room. Meanwhile, the cashier with red sideburns was returning the socks to the beggars - apparently, he really tried them on, but they turned out to be the wrong size for him. "God's with them, these poor cruel folk", thought Galbraith, although he was a little interested, what the waiter - who meanwhile had already disappeared into the kitchen - was going to know...

The inspector put his hands in his pockets and, quickening his pace, decided that the dinner was ruined - not so much because of the fettuccine, it was more of a reason to leave the "Orcinus Orca Osteria" - how much from the staff, who behaved very inappropriately, and also because of these beggars... Galbraith wanted to get rid of the disgusting feeling, so he decided to go to a liquor store, which, fortunately for him, turned out to be almost next to this catering establishment - just on the other side of the road.

In this very cramped room, where it was impossible to really walk past the shelves with alcohol, it was not particularly comfortable for him to move around in search of the right bottle. By this time, there was a large line of people at the cash register, and during the entire time that Galbraith was looking for some cheaper drink, not one of these people left the store, which also did not bring any good.. When the inspector finally took the bottle of pink sparkling wine he liked and stood in line, he realized what was going on - the cash register froze after absolutely every item was sold and the cashier had to constantly restart it. Galbraith got tired of waiting, and he, putting the bottle in its original place, left this tiny alcohol market in completely upset feelings.

He returned to the "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel tight and dry. Having climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered his room, Galbraith was relieved to take off his jacket, slightly wet from the rain, and went to the bath. Having finished washing, he then went to the bed and, without knowing why, turned the mattress over. This innocent action made him shudder with disgust - underneath him, on the surface of the bed, whole flocks of tiny red bugs swarmed. Without wasting a minute, Galbraith immediately went downstairs and called the concierge. Quite soon a gloomy old man in an old-fashioned blue tailcoat, without a single hair on his head, came out to see him. He looked the inspector up and down.

- The only thing I can suggest to you is to change the room, - the concierge said gloomily, as if thinking about the end of the world.
- Is it really that hard for you to ask me to change my mattress? - Galbraith, tired after the osteria, was not ready for this.
- I'm sorry, but I'm not much help, - the old man said firmly.
- What about bed linen? My sheet is burned by a cigarette, - said the inspector.
- As compensation, I can ask that fresh fruit slices be delivered to your room, - the concierge answered, continuing to stand like a stick of rhubarb.
- All right, I accept that, - Galbraith answered with a hint of despair.
- At the expense of the establishment, of course, - the old man added.

The rules here are strange, Galbraith thought, climbing the stairs to his room, because the bed and some fruit are disproportionate to each other... The inspector couldn't help but think that whoever he met in London during this time, everyone who came across his path seemed to be crazy. "Or it's just me too respectable for this city?" he asked himself as he entered the room. Approaching the bed, he became convinced that it was impossible to sleep on it - the bedbugs he had disturbed were already crawling all over the bed linen. He began to prepare for the fact that he would apparently have to sleep on a shoe bench, which was just long enough for him to lie down on with his legs crossed.

Then the concierge entered the room. He glanced at the tousled bed, did not say a word and, putting a small plate on the table, left. Galbraith came closer - yes, there really were fruits there, but in what quantity. One slice each of apple, pear and orange, and, contrary to the words of the old man in the blue tailcoat, they were far from fresh - the apple and pear darkened, and the orange became weathered in the air. Well, of course, Galbraith thought, taking the plate in his hands, no one was going to feed him - the fruit is just a symbol of the fact that the staff of this hotel is supposedly sensitive to the guests...

The inspector went to the trash bin and sent these fruits there, and, putting the plate on the desk, shuddered - someone had again disturbed him with their visit. Galbraith turned around - it was the scrubwoman, a stout person in a greasy apron, who, having placed a bucket of water on the floor, started wiping the floor with a wet mop. The inspector went to the window so as not to interfere with her cleaning the room. Having nothing else to do, he looked down at the road where the cars were driving. The only sign that an accident occurred in the morning under his window was only a dark spot on the asphalt. Galbraith thought that if so much blood had flowed out, then that poor guy in the convertible had definitely went to the forefathers...

Continuing to look at the road, he heard the creaking of the bathroom door - well, finally, he thought, they would deign to clean the plaque in the toilet... But that was not the case - the scrubwoman left there without spending even a minute there. Galbraith hoped that she at least put new toilet paper there. With these thoughts, he took his eyes off the road and looked at the scrubwoman, who, gloomily looking ahead, was diligently spreading liquid dirt on the floor. Feeling the guest's stern gaze on her, she straightened her back and, squeezing out the mop, swept away the trash in the corners.

- What a service... - Galbraith involuntarily burst out when the woman, having taken the bucket, was already leaving him.

The scrubwoman, hearing his voice, jerked her whole body so hard that a couple of drops of dirty water from her bucket splashed onto the door. She threw a frightened look at him and immediately disappeared into the corridor, forgetting about closing the door.

- Oh yes, parsimony doesn't serve, - the inspector said out loud.

Galbraith closed the door behind the scrubwoman and, sighing, looked at the floor - it did not become cleaner; on the contrary, ugly black wet stains appeared on the linoleum. He approached the bed, where small red insects were swarming with might and main on the blanket, pillow and sheet, because of which this piece of furniture looked as if it had been eaten away by rust, and this rust was alive and was constantly changing its pattern. Standing by the bed and contemplating this mess in a kind of trance, Galbraith breathed slowly and deeply, and the tips of his fingers twitched slightly from the indignation reigning inside.

At another time, the inspector would have happily left not only this room, but the hotel in general, but now he was in a state where he had no choice. Tired after an unpleasant incident in the "Orcinus Orca Osteria", both mentally and physically, he dreamed of only one thing - to give his body a horizontal position. Therefore, Galbraith, taking a stack of papers with material on the Pharqraut's case from the desk, kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the bed infested with bugs. The next moment he felt how these parasites clung to his legs and arms, but he no longer cared.

- Magistratus oportet servire populo, - he said quietly out loud with detachment.

He remembered this Latin proverb - because it was precisely what was written on the very agitational banner under which the messenger sat, brought him the news about death of the last scion of the Yonce family. The meaning of this expression seemed appropriate to the inspector in the situation in which he found himself - if only because, having drawn himself into this mysterious matter, he, willy-nilly, was obliged to serve this very people, if only out of a sense of elementary conscience. Galbraith involuntarily remembered the kind-hearted Matt MacLaren, whose exciting story set this whirlpool of events in motion. How he is doing there now? How were things going with his friends in Portland now, while Galbraith, was hanging around here, unsuccessfully trying to find traces of doctor Baselard, who, as he knew, had left for England after that fateful surgery? "To England, on affairs" - these words were forever etched in the inspector’s memory when he came to the apartment of this child murderer...

He remembered that he went to bed precisely in order to continue reading the file of his now deceased friend. Galbraith involuntarily felt pity - no, not Galbraith, although that would be logical - the inspector regretted that there was not a single chair in this room. He brought the stack of sheets to his eyes and, trying to understand where he stopped last time, got ready to read this magnum opus. As a result, he began from the moment when the author of this investigation went to the scene of the death of janitor Theodore Beckel. Trying to keep the entire document in an official tone, Pharqraut, sparing with expressions, dryly wrote that at the pedestrian crossing where the body was found, he was unable to find anything that could arouse suspicion - the only thing is that the paint that was used for the marked crosswalk has worn off over time.

For a moment Galbraith resurrected in his head the appearance of urban roads in Portland. "Yes, this is not London", he thought... He went back to reading. The document stated that when Pharqraut, not finding anything on the road, went into a public toilet located opposite the shopping center - out of necessity, of course - then there he noticed that in the booth he entered, the Arabic numeral Four was written on the wall. As the author of the investigation wrote, he would not have mentioned this moment if not for several curious details. Firstly, Pharqraut began to list, an unknown vandal was wielding a black Alkyd car enamel - although inscriptions of this kind are usually drawn with ordinary markers.

Secondly, Galbraith's friend noticed that the numeral was written not once, but four times - and a glance at the inscription was enough to understand that the vandal was applying paint with sweeping movements, as if trying to bring it to the entire wall, but in the end the paint apparently ran out, so he repeated only four times and not five or more. In addition, Pharqraut, out of the blue, felt obliged to write in an official document his thought that it was somehow strange to him that the owner of the toilet did not get rid of the inscription - he could understand, if the toilet was somewhere in the wilderness, but no, this place is used by people leaving the shopping center.

Having read this ode to a public toilet, Galbraith involuntarily thought that his friend did the right thing in not becoming a writer - with this style, his books could of course be bought by inertia - simply because a new author has appeared on the market - but then his works would be avoided, because readers would already know that the language of this writer is boring and difficult to understand. Galbraith took the next sheet of paper, which described the inspection of the place where the janitor's body lay, how the police took measurements with tape measures and Pharqraut gave them instructions. "Hmm", Galbraith thought, "It seems to me, or did the author of the document mix up the moments?" After all, when the inspector reported about the toilet, he wrote that he entered it AFTER he examined the dead Theodore Beckel...

Yawning, the inspector simply decided to skip this rather boring passage and changed the page again. Now Pharqraut wrote about the investigation into the death of Penelope Conway, the saleswoman in certain duty-free shop. Unlike Theodore Beckel, where apart from the inscription in the toilet there was nothing interesting to read, the description of Conway’s apartment involuntarily attracted Galbraith, if only because Pharqraut wrote this excerpt in a slightly more lively language. His friend noted that as soon as he entered the saleswoman’s apartment, he immediately drew attention to the mirror hanging in the hallway - the fact was that the glass was covered with a white chintz covering. Pharqraut wrote that he asked the deceased's aunt if it was her doing, to which the woman replied that she did not touch anything in the apartment and the mirror was covered even when she herself had just arrived at her niece’s apartment. Galbraith's friend, who apparently thought that the readers would not understand his bewilderment, began to justify his suspicions by saying that a mirror is usually curtained when a person has already died, because there is a belief according to which the spirit of the owner, who has already departed to another world, wanders around the apartment.

- Witless mystical nonsense, - muttered Galbraith, scratching his incredibly itchy leg from bedbugs.

Still, the medic Maurice was right that day when he said "You're talking about your supernatural rubbish again!", meaning the circumstance that Pharqraut found meaning in things that in the world of materialism have absolutely no meaning.

- A law enforcement officer shouldn't believe in miracles, - Galbraith said involuntarily, taking his eyes off the letters and staring at the ceiling.

He always said this to himself when he encountered something that he could not explain in simple words. It just seemed to him that the world obeys physical laws, and any, even the strangest phenomenon, must be approached from the position of a physicist, not a poet. Another thing is that the inspector himself did not have extensive knowledge of either one or the other - being essentially a simple man in the street who, by the will of fate, became a policeman, Galbraith understood that he should not even delve into these things, but his profession, which is conducive to the construction of hypotheses, forced his brain to work in a direction in which he would never have gone in everyday life.

"Oh", he thought to himself, "Why was I so driven to become a police inspector at one time?". After all, he could sit in the studio and paint paintings to order, but no, he has to get his hands dirty in the blood of criminal cases... Having pushed away these rhetorical thoughts, he returned to the document. His friend wrote that if we take words of Penelope Conway's aunt at face value, it turns out that the mirror was actually curtained before the relative entered the apartment. The author of these lines wondered - it turns out that the unknown killer did this on purpose? Pharqraut further hypothesized that perhaps it could have been a strange gesture of respect for the deceased and thought - not without reason - that the killer could have been a person who was not indifferent to the deceased saleswoman.

- Murder out of jealousy, - Galbraith said thoughtfully after reading this.

He involuntarily thought that he himself was driven by this feeling. Only the inspector could not fully understand who he was jealous of and, most importantly, to whom... He continued reading. While inspecting Conway's apartment, inspector Pharqraut noted the fact that only one shelf was occupied in her bookcase, and there was essentially only one book "Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes", the author of which was a certain Edith Hamilton. Friend of Galbraith was quite surprised by the fact that an entire shelf was occupied by twenty copies of this very book alone, and even the edition was the same. The inspector again wondered on the pages of his material - maybe the saleswoman bought the books to give them to friends? But why then was there no other book in her apartment, not even a cookbook? The late Penelope Conway didn't like to read, or she collected all the books that were in the closet before, to sell them and use the proceeds to buy twenty copies of just one book about Greek myths? Having asked these questions to the readers, the author then noted that in the remaining empty space on the bottom shelf, five more books with the same number of pages could fit.

- I wonder how he checked it, - thought Galbraith.

He understood that the profession of a police inspector requires a certain way of thinking from a person, but it was difficult for him to imagine his friend wasting his time on such a stupid task as moving books from one place to another. Galbraith involuntarily remembered how, even before the death of the pharmaceutist's young daughter, he was visiting mister chief inspector, drinking Pimm's with him. In the tone of a professor speaking about a favorite student, Schaeymoure praised Pharqraut's ability to pay attention to things that would seem completely meaningless to another person. Then, pouring myself a glass of English fruit liqueur, Galbraith thought that mister chief inspector had always dreamed of sitting down at the same table with Pharqraut and writing a joint material on a topic that interested both of them. It's just that something didn't allow him to do it. Galbraith suggested that the problem was, firstly, that Schaeymoure was busy, and secondly, that such behavior simply somehow did not fit into the relationship between master and servant.

He suddenly woke up and remembered that it was time to finish reading - if only because angry bugs were already crawling on his skin with might and main. Therefore, then Galbraith simply skimmed the text with his eyes, without really trying to delve into the essence. Now the document contained a description that in addition to identical sets of white dresses, in the deceased’s wardrobe at the very bottom there was a box in which lay - the inspector's friend then listed the items - a leather collar with spikes, a tape for tying hands, a tickler and gag. Further, Pharqraut wondered whether the deceased had a boyfriend, because, as he wrote, he was confused by the fact that miss Faye had always had a reserved character and, as far as the inspector himself could judge, she had never really fallen in love.

- Wait, who is miss Faye? - Galbraith exclaimed in bewilderment.

A second later it dawned on him that this piece of text did not agree with what had been written earlier. He ran his eyes over the paper - the names of the pimpf Alexander O'Brent and Eugene Woods - his killer, were already there. It turns out that when Galbraith dropped this stack of sheets, he collected them without any system, which is why it was now almost impossible to read the case of his late friend - because without observing chronology, the connection between hypotheses and facts was lost.

- What could it be, great reading, - Galbraith sighed and threw the stack of papers up in grief.

Materials of Pharqraut's case fell to the floor again, like leaves in autumn - only these were strange leaves, not yellow and red, but white and with black lines of letters. The inspector felt as if he had been deceived. "Well, of course", he thought, "I'm himself made a mistake, and himself is reaping its fruits..." Here he completely out of place remembered that in Pharqraut he was always surprised by the fact that when asked if he had a girlfriend, his friend answered that this did not apply to his person, because he adheres to the idea that fate itself measures, who will continue their family line, and who will die without offspring.

- Very strong word, - Galbraith said loudly and clearly, feeling his skin burning because of the insects.

After Galbraith commented out loud on the expression of his late friend that randomly came to mind, he, trying not to go crazy from the bites of annoying bedbugs, took off his outer clothing and crawled under the blanket. Red insects began to creep even more viciously over his body - they crawled under his armpits, clung to his chest and legs, and the most arrogant parasites tried to get into the inside of his ears and nostrils. Perhaps there was an additional effect of the fact that in the darkness he could not see their exact number, but, one way or another, the discomfort gradually increased, and soon the inspector woke up in the middle of the night.

- I have had enough! - he shouted into the void.

As he was barefoot, Galbraith walked to the wall switch and extended his hand forward. His index finger touched the white plastic snap. There was a barely audible click, and the room immediately became bright. He looked down and looked at his legs - the bedbugs hung on his skin like ants clinging to a twig. Oh, he thought, if he had not accidentally turned over the mattress, then probably the insects would not have come out... Walking into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and stood under its cold streams. Trying to wash away the vile insects, Galbraith in his thoughts returned to Portland. At first I just remembered how good it was for him there, how he could sleep peacefully in his small apartment without fighting bedbugs. Then, when he was able to get rid of most of the parasites, he sat down on the edge of the bath, focusing on the moment when he finally decided that he needed to leave for this very London.

Nothing particularly unusual happened at that time - Galbraith was just walking to his home after a tiring day at work. That evening there was a chilly wind blowing, so he didn't want to linger outside too long and walked at an accelerated pace. By the time he reached Abbouts st., dusk had already fallen on the street. Approaching house E-14, the inspector put his hand into his jacket pocket - he always pulled out his keys in advance - and raised his head up. What he saw made him shake off a touch of melancholy - the window of his apartment was brightly lit. Galbraith remembered very well that he had not turned on the light in the room since the previous evening, so there could be no doubt that someone else had gotten into his apartment. The inspector's heart began to beat wildly, and he, groping for his small but trusty service pistol in his inner pocket, feverishly ran into the entrance of the house.

Luckily for him, he didn't run into any neighbours inside, so he could safely take out his weapon without fear that anyone would notice. Galbraith ran up the steps to the second floor with a loud stomp, and, holding the weapon with his left hand, inserted the key into the keyhole. His hands were wet with sweat, his fingers were shaking as if in a fever - such was the power of fear that gripped the police inspector at that second. Finally, he was able to get the key into the well. Leaning with his whole body, Galbraith turned it - in the process, the metal of the key almost bent. The door creaked quietly, and Galbraith, with his pistol at the ready, crossed the threshold with the agility of a wild animal in one fell swoop.

- Good evening, mister inspector. I'm glad you finally came, - suddenly a completely calm senile voice was heard.

He expected to see anyone in his apartment - bandits, gangsters, crazy clowns in the end... But what was his surprise when it turned out that sitting on the chair standing by the window was none other than mister chief inspector himself!

- You are not a movie, Galbraith, - Schaeymoure said tranquilly, albeit with some reproach.

Indeed, the scene looked incredibly stupid - apartment owner stood opposite his guest, pointing the barrel of a gun at him. Galbraith immediately felt uneasy.

- I find myself begging your pardon, - he said embarrassedly, slowly lowering his service pistol.
- Please, be seated. I needed to speak with you, - imperturbably Schaeymoure said.

Apparently, Galbraith thought, mister chief inspector has no fear of death at all, if he didn't even raise an eyebrow at this prank with the pistol. Putting the weapon in the inside pocket of his jacket, he looked up at guest.

- Well, you know, I'm not going to sit... - he said quietly
- You are nervous and that's your business, - Schaeymoure said. - But keep in mind that in this case you will have to stand for a long time.
- I'm not some soft-handed for whom standing for a couple of hours is already a burden, - Galbraith answered with a hint of resentment.

These words brought a hint of a smile to the face of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure. The old man seemed to enjoy watching the excited man who was twenty years his junior.

- I have to say, I like your way of expressing your opinion, - the smile was replaced by calm again. - But I didn't come to you to admire your confusion.

Well, of course, Galbraith thought sarcastically to himself, mister chief inspector quietly snuck in his subordinate's apartment, and he thinks that the owner of the apartment will find this as ordinary as a morning meal...

- The essential point is, I want to give you a message... - began his guest.

With these words, Schaeymoure reached out and took a white pack of cigarettes from the table. The apartment owner hurried to approach mister chief inspector in order to obligingly light his cigarette, but he silently dismissed him with a gesture and lit it himself with his lighter.

- So, Galbraith, - taking a drag, he said. - I understand your attitude towards her, so I will not ask you why you decided not to tell me about your schedules.

"What does he mean?" Galbraith thought. Who is this "she" with whom, according to the old man, he himself feels some kind of special relationship?

- That is why, - Schaeymoure continued. - I didn't ask you to share your suspicions with me.
- In relation to whom? - Galbraith involuntarily burst out.
- Doctor Baselard, who else would it be? - answered mister chief inspector and blew out a cloud of smoke.

Galbraith involuntarily admired what a neat ring his honourable guest had made. Yes, he thought, the skill to smoke is also an art...

- Why did you decide that I suspect him? - he asked Schaeymoure with irony in his voice.
- Because I, as a man who was closely acquainted with him, was well aware of the fact that his person could not but arouse suspicion, especially in a subject with such a turn of mind as yours.

The owner of the apartment involuntarily widened his eyes when his guest unloaded this expatiation on him. "How", he thought, "Could mister chief inspector really have a connection with that doctor?". It didn't fit in his head.

- Are you all right? - Schaeymoure asked, looking at his interlocutor's embarrassment.
- Forgive me, - Galbraith woke up from shock and lowered his eyes.
- I understand that this surprises you, - the guest answered calmly. - Isso Que é Vida, - he said suddenly.

Galbraith could not understand the meaning of the last three words of his interlocutor, but could not help but restrain himself from losing his temper and unleashing a stream of words on mister chief inspector.

- Surprises? Is that what you call it? - trying not to raise his voice, he slightly clenched his fists. - Do you really think that I can put up with the fact that this damnable doctor, - Galbraith did not try to choose expressions. - Not only does he not displease you, but it turns out that he is also your friend?!

Having blurted this out, the inspector felt his temperature rise. He raised his right hand to his hair to wipe away the sweat that had formed on his forehead, but the next second something fell to the floor. He bent down - it turned out that he had forgotten that he had been holding a lighter in it all this time, wanting to light the cigarette of his uninvited guest.

- You look amazing in anger, - Schaeymoure said unexpectedly.

Galbraith, who had already picked up the lighter, froze in one position again. He did not expect that his interlocutor would not only not be offended by his behavior, but, on the contrary, would praise this fleeting, uncontrollable outburst of wrath.

- You are motivated by fury, - his interlocutor continued. - And I understand this - the person of that subject can evoke only two reactions - either admiration for his intellect, or sharp hatred of his nature.
- I don't understand you, - Galbraith admitted honestly
- Doctor Baselard is very complicated man, - Schaeymoure said briefly.

"It's understatement", thought the owner of the apartment. He got the feeling that Schaeymoure was trying to show the good side of this man.

- I understand that you now think that I am whitewashing him, - as if reading the thoughts of the interlocutor, Schaeymoure said. - But I really didn't mean it that way.
- Maybe you think that I suspect you yourself? - Galbraith could not resist.
- Por que não? - the guest answered in an incomprehensible language. - In the situation in which you find yourself, there is nothing left to do but suspect each and every one.

Having said this, mister chief inspector rose from his chair. The owner of the apartment simply stood still and watched, almost in divine awe, as Schaeymoure put a cigarette in the ashtray and, straightening his tie, looked out the window. Galbraith followed his gaze - night had already fallen.

- I will allow myself express aloud what I think might have occurred to you, - his guest turned away from the window and crossed his arms over his chest.
- So what will you say? - for some reason this gesture of his interlocutor amused Galbraith.
- The fact that in your head no-no, but thoughts flashed about the fact that wrongdoer Jordan Thurlow and his victim Delia Yonce are of the same blood.
- How... - at these words, Galbraith's jaw began to drop.
- How should I know? - Schaeymoure guessed what he wanted to say. - The fact of the matter, out of nowhere. I said it at random, - he answered calmly.

"Now others will begin to mistrust me too", thought Galbraith. He sighed and, raising his eyes to the ceiling, began to stretch his cervical vertebrae.

- Not to mention... - mister chief inspector suddenly said. - I don't think you'll be interested in knowing this...

Hearing this, apartment owner immediately perked up and looked at his guest.

- These are affairs of bygone days, but still I think that Baselard took Duncan's life out of mercy.
- Are you talking about brain surgery? - Galbraith remembered perfectly well who his interlocutor was talking about now.
- Right. It just seems to me that Baselard decided to meet the poor guy halfway. The woodcutter's death was not an accident - the doctor knew from the very beginning that brain surgery would end in death, and realizing that Duncan still could no longer live normally in condition like that...
- Are you saying that doctor Baselard killed Duncan with his tacit consent? - a sudden insight dawned on the middle-aged inspector.
- You can interpret my words as you please, - Schaeymoure said instead of answering.

Mister chief inspector, taking his hat off the back of his chair, headed towards the exit from the apartment. Galbraith slowly, as if afraid to step on his feet, trotted after the departing guest. Schaeymoure, already grabbing the handle of the front door, turned to the owner.

- I can tell you one thing for sure, doctor Baselard is not the bloodthirsty killer you think he is, - he said dryly.
- Hmm... - Hearing these words, Galbraith unexpectedly lowered his gaze.
- Have a good night, - already from the entryway the voice of mister chief inspector was heard.

At this moment, Galbraith suddenly woke up from his memories. He looked around, as if not understanding where he was. Whatever it was, he told himself, Portland was a thing of the past, and now he was sitting in the bathroom of a shabby London hotel room. He looked at his feet - so far there was not a single bug on his skin.

- Well, soon they will surround me again... - said the inspector with a sigh.

Coming out of the bathroom, he, shaking from the cold, dived under the blanket, completely forgetting that he needed to turn off the light in the room. Galbraith was so tired after the cold bath that as soon as he closed his eyes, he immediately fell asleep. The inspector slept peacefully, without dreams.

Waking up the next day, Galbraith noted with great displeasure that while he was sleeping, bedbugs again covered him from head to toe. There is nothing to do, he thought, and ran to the bathroom. Not so much for the sake of washing, but for the sake of getting rid of parasites under running water. After rinsing off, the inspector did not brush his teeth; he even forgot to dry himself with a towel. Approaching the window, he looked at the road and froze, but this time not because he was fascinated by the sight of the cars - the fact was that right under his window sill on the sidewalk below stood a certain young guy in a red shirt. Galbraith immediately suspected something was wrong - it seemed to him that this person had been standing there for some time, and clearly in such a convenient place to monitor the room where the inspector himself was now staying.

Standing by the window, Galbraith looked down at the young guy. He could not see his face, which was hidden behind the wide-open newspaper. Yeah, the inspector thought, the guy is pretending that he just stopped to read an interesting note, the most commonplace spy trick. Suddenly, as he was thinking about this, the mysterious stranger lowered the newspaper, and Galbraith was able to examine he a little more carefully. The scout - Galbraith had no doubt that this was not a random passer-by - had long black hair that curled slightly into curls at the ends. This guy's nose was slightly turned up, and his facial features gave him a vague resemblance to the pretty face of young Japanese popstars. After analyzing all this, the inspector remembered that he had seen exactly the same face on the plane when he was flying to London. It seems that it was exactly the same frail guy with whom he was sitting then with the old man... Galbraith unfortunately forgot what that fellow traveller was wearing, but it didn’t matter - after all, is not the clothes that makes the man, and the man's clothes - who, if not the policeman, should know this!

Having made sure that this guy had not noticed him from the street, Galbraith walked away from the window and headed back to the bathroom. Now he washed himself properly, not forgetting to brush his teeth. Then he picked up a razor - he wanted to shave. Alas, the inspector abandoned this case for the umpteenth time because, without calculating the effort, he rubbed too hard on the cheek and ended up cutting the skin. The blood flowed in a thin and seemingly endless red stream... "Yes, apparently it’s not my destiny to shave", thought Galbraith, leaving the bathroom - he needed to find cotton wool and alcohol to stop the bleeding. He found neither one nor the other in the suitcase. And he even remembered why - when he was packing for the trip, he was told that he should never take alcohol with him, otherwise he might be stopped at customs.

Galbraith called the concierge to the room and, while he was waiting for him to arrive, went to the bathroom again and put his cheek under the stream of water. He knew it wouldn't do much good, but at least the cold water dulled the pain somewhat. Soon there was a knock on the door and the inspector went to open it. However, instead of the concierge - an old man in a blue tailcoat - a young parlourmaid answered his call.

- I'm sorry, mister Galbraith, - she began hastily right from the doorway. - But mister Tibor won't be able to come today.

Having quickly uttered these words, she immediately fell silent, and at the same time shuddered, as if someone had pulled her from behind. The inspector tried not to pay too much attention to it.

- Why? - Galbraith asked out of politeness.
- He was taken to the hospital last night, - said the woman and shuddered all over again.
- Are you will continue to say with one word at a time? - the inspector said somewhat dissatisfied.

This twitch of the interlocutress was already starting to get on Galbraith’s nerves. What was the reason for the parlourmaid’s state of mind was unclear to him, but the fact remained that she behaved somehow strangely, which is why he himself had a not very pleasant feeling at that moment.

- Mister Tibor was diagnosed with cancer symptoms... I do not want to elaborate on this, - the parlourmaid said this in a tone that looked like she was about to cry.
- Okay, let's not talk about it, - the inspector reassured her.

The woman continued to stand on the threshold, and Galbraith noticed that at the moments when she spoke, her neck visibly inflated, like a bellows. There must be something wrong with her lungs, he thought to himself.

- Could you bring some cotton wool to my room? - he turned to her after five seconds of silence.
- Sorry, please speak clearly, - the woman batted her eyelashes.
- I called a man here to bring me cotton wool. I cut myself, - Galbraith said it loud and clear.

The parlourmaid listened to him, continuing to bat her eyelashes like a noctambulant. With every second her neck inflated more and more, as if it were a balloon that was about to burst. Galbraith wondered why she had such strange behavior...

- Cut yourself further! - the woman suddenly shouted rudely.
- Excuse me, do you mind? - Galbraith, surprised by her sudden outburst of aggression, tried to control himself.
- This is not a pharmacy to be dragged all sorts of medicinal muck for you! - the parlourmaid shouted with hatred and left his room.
- Wait, where are you going?? - the inspector called after her.
- Do not address me for such things! - came her scream from the corridor.

Closing the door behind her, Galbraith thought that apparently this parlourmaid was either a child or concubine of the concierge - the inspector couldn’t find another reason for her aggression, and he didn’t really want to - he had long ago realized that guests are not welcome in "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel. He had to take a handkerchief from his suitcase instead of cotton wool - not the cleanest, but at least something - and with its help try to do something about the cut. Having stopped the bleeding in half with grief, Galbraith decided that he had enough of sitting in this room, in which the bed was a complete anthill, the staff was inadequate, and the interior is far from luxury class. The inspector began to pack his things, but when he began to look for where he had put his spare shirt, there was another knock on the door, and he again had to go open it.

- Mister Galbraith, you've got a visitor, - it was still the same parlourmaid, only now she seemed to have calmed down.
- Who, excuse me? - asked Galbraith.
- Not a young men, - as if doubting the accuracy of her words, the woman answered.
- He can wait, - the inspector was not in the mood to host any unknown men in his room.
- He said he was on important business! - the parlourmaid said firmly.
- Well, let him come in, - Galbraith waved his hand and walked away from the door.

He walked to the window and looked down. The guy in the red shirt was no longer there - maybe it really was a random passerby...

- Good afternoon! - someone's insinuating voice called out to him.

Galbraith turned around - a middle-aged men entered the room - not as old as the parlourmaid presented the visitor, although with silver hair. Apparently, the suddenness with which the owner of the room turned around scared this men a little, because he backed away slightly when the inspector stared at him. "Hmm, he looks like a medic", Galbraith thought, looking at this uninvited visitor, dressed in a strict brown suit, over which was thrown a white medical gown.

- So I understand that you are a doctor? - the inspector expressed his guess out loud.
- No, you made a mistake, - the men answered with some sly gleam in his eyes. - I work in the field which holds the key to the future.
- And which one exactly? - Galbraith was intrigued by this definition.
- Computer technologies, - the interlocutor answered calmly.

After these words, the silver-haired men modestly lowered his eyes, but it was clear that in fact he was almost bursting with importance. "So that's the way it is", thought the inspector. Looking at this men, a memory involuntarily came to his mind of how back in 1981, when he first saw a used Tandy microcomputer at the police academy, he got into an argument with its operator. That cheerful guy, sitting at the keyboard, told Galbraith, who was standing next to him, that the computer is a product of evolution, comparable to the invention of the steam engine. Without skimping on expressions, the operator said that mass computerization is the future of humanity, which will lead it out of the swamp of ignorance.

Galbraith himself responded to this expatiation by saying that he certainly understands that soon computers will be used in all areas of life, but computerization is inherently a a bilge pump, after all, a simple strike of power plant workers all over the Earth is enough for all electronics - including computers - to turn into a pile of useless scrap metal, and with this a terrible crisis will begin. And Galbraith did not fail to cite libraries as an example - in his opinion, if knowledge is only in electronic form, then with the loss of electricity, civilization will return to a state close to the Stone Age.

When he said this, the computer operator yelled that he was a pessimist, and also, apparently, a spy sent by the Communists. "Yes", Galbraith thought, "Something similar was said to Pharqraut at the University of Portland, only unlike him, I was not kicked out because of this conversation..." The inspector looked up from his memories and turned to his visitor.

- Well, if you work in the field of the future, then I'm certainly very happy... - he started.
- Well, how could it be otherwise! - the silver-haired men interrupted him.
- Wait, I didn't finish, - Galbraith said. - I wanted to ask how you found out about me.

At these words his visitor pulled out a small white card from his pocket and, holding it in his left hand, said:

- I'm a specialist from the "Makoto Computerization Institute" and we are looking for volunteers... - he began to speak.
- What other volunteers? Did I write somewhere that I want... - the inspector interrupted him with growing dissatisfaction.
- Now it's your turn to listen to me! - raising his voice, the silver-haired men flashed his eyes.
- Okay, I get the message, - Galbraith exhaled noisily.
- We need volunteers so that from the point of view of a common person we can evaluate the computer's dreams, - the specialist said with some pathos.
- The computer's dreams? - the inspector repeated the last words of his interlocutor in amazement.
- It's a long story, you better come to us right away, and we'll all... - the silver-haired men didn't finish speaking.

Interrupting the phrase mid-sentence, the specialist put the card he had been holding in his hands on the nightstand.

- See you! - he said cheerfully, heading towards the exit of the room.

After two seconds Galbraith went to the nightstand and picked up a piece of white glossy cardboard. This business card had only two lines - the name of the institution the visitor was talking about, as well as the address. Galbraith, peering at the small letters, suddenly heard the visitor slam the door, and almost uttered the exclamation "Hey wait, stop!". Having put the card back, the inspector ran to the door and opened it, but there was no one in the corridor. Okay, Galbraith thought, what's the point of chasing after this stranger because that he forgot to ask him how he knew about his modest person. Closing the door, the inspector glanced at the nightstand and returned to the bed. Not wanting to be covered in bedbugs again, he simply sat down on the blanket and stared straight ahead.

Galbraith's head was now in complete chaos. From the very beginning of this whole story with doctor Baselard, the inspector’s nerves were already beginning to fray, but now, being in a foreign country, in the room of this terrible hotel, Galbraith’s paranoia began to progress. He immediately began to suspect that this visitor, who introduced himself as a computer specialist, was affiliated with that gynecological surgeon. Galbraith was well aware that his own visit to the doctor, which took place back in Portland, undoubtedly made Baselard confident that the police had already arranged surveillance on him and therefore would not miss the opportunity to send a policeman after him. Therefore, after leaving America, doctor Baselard apparently warned his friends in London in advance so that they would monitor the people who would look for him. "This hypothesis has the right to life", Galbraith thought.

Thinking about America, the inspector could not help but remember that it was rather strange that none of the Portland Police Bureau people cared about the escaped doctor. All the police did was to arrest Baselard's assistants who were present during the hysterectomy operation. They were interrogated, and after recording their words, and no further action was taken. And only Galbraith insisted that one should not turn a blind eye to this - a couple of days after the case of Delia's death was closed, he volunteered to catch the instigator of this incident. The police looked at him as an idiot who decided to chase a ghost.

Galbraith was told that his idea of ​​catching Baselard did not make sense, because the death of daughter of certain pharmaceutist was not an event for which it was worth catching a person who had already moved to another country. The inspector was told by his superiors that the Portland police saw no point in asking the Metropolitan Police Service to hand over a some surgeon to them. It was incredibly lucky, Galbraith thought, that someone did apply, and soon he was issued a visa, bought a plane ticket and booked a room in the very hotel where he was now sitting. It is possible that this patron, who wished to remain anonymous, was mister chief inspector Schaeymoure himself, but Galbraith did not have time to particularly understand who helped him and with what thoughts, because at that time he was already packing his things to fly to England.

Due to the overwhelming emotions and impressions, it was difficult for the inspector to put his thoughts in order. Galbraith returned to today's guest. This silver-haired man clearly knew him by sight, this specialist was well aware that he would be staying in this room of "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel... Who it might have been? Galbraith began to think that his today's visitor was probably Baselard's assistant, perhaps even his closest disciple. Apparently, he received Baselard when he arrived in London, and, having learned from the doctor the signs of Galbraith, in some incomprehensible way he tracked down the inspector and paid him a visit, just to see, to make sure that his master was being hunted...

- Don't be in such a hurry, - Galbraith said quietly to himself. - Need to calm down...

Sitting on the bed, he felt as if the world around him was spinning at a frantic pace cante flamenco. What made matters worse was the fact that even without going to bed, the bugs still took the opportunity to stick around a person. Feeling a disgusting itch all over his skin, Galbraith got up and went to the window, hoping that the parasites wouldn’t get him here. Looking at the already tired landscape of the road, he began to remember what he knew about Baselard’s assistants. As he remembered, there were only two of them - a man named Norman Van Riesen and a woman named Caetlynn Armour.

At first they interrogated the female, because she easily made contact with the police - it seemed that she herself was going towards the investigation. In addition to facts of little interest to Galbraith about how she gave Baselard instruments and other medical supplies, she also told an interesting detail - It turns out that the doctor, before starting to operate on Delia Yonce, publicly stated that after the operation he would need to urgently fly to England, because he was not sure that the girl was unlikely to be able to recover after the removal of an important internal organ. When Caetlynn Armour was asked if she remembered whether doctor Baselard specified the city to which he was going, she said that he limited himself to only a general definition of the country.

Then Galbraith recalled how the second assistant, a male, was interrogated. The police interrogating him found it difficult to extract words from this unusually sullen man - it seemed as if doctor Baselard had deliberately hired a misanthrope as his assistant, as if he knew that if the police intervened, this man would not spill the beans. However, Norman Van Riesen did tell the police a couple of details, of which Galbraith especially remembers the second. Staring at the police with hateful eyes from under his thick eyebrows, this man said in a hoarse voice that after they removed uterus from the girl, mister Baselard, together with miss Armour, began to remove some kind of thing from the organ - mister Van Riesen could not pronounce its Latin Name. Norman himself received an order from the doctor, the essence of which was that he had to dial some telephone number on the phone and, after waiting for the subscriber to pick up, shout in the most hysterical voice possible any nonsense that came into his head. Alas, the police interrogating Norman Van Riesen were unable to get him to remember the words he shouted into the phone, because after telling them this story, he lost his temper and began screaming for them to let him go to his wife.

In any case, these words about the phone call made Galbraith remember that very morning when, the day after the day of his vacation, he was woken up by a call, and, picking up the phone, he heard a hysterical voice that shouted "Maestro, say "você"! "Você" means "you"!". Then Galbraith was out of sorts and immediately hung up, but now that he was aware of who that unknown caller was, it now dawned on him why he then had a feeling of some impending trouble. Poor Delia, the inspector thought to himself...

Galbraith, who was already tired of looking at cars passing along the street, realized that he can’t just stand there and indulge in memories in vain. He walked away from the window and began looking for clothes, wondering what to do. He threw out the idea of moving out of this "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel - firstly, a feeling of stinginess did not allow him to just give up a room for which he had paid almost six hundred dollars (in American money). Secondly, it seemed to the inspector that if he now began to bother himself with moving, then, being busy with this matter, he would not be able to properly comprehend the visit of this strange specialist.

After getting dressed, Galbraith went to the door and, after checking that he had not forgotten either his wallet or documents, went down the stairs and left the hotel building. He already knew what the weather was like outside - because he stood at the window for almost a quarter of an hour - but he did not expect that it would be so hot outside. Regretting that he forgot to wet his shirt before leaving, he hailed a taxi and, opening the door, addressed the driver:

- Take me to a restaurant you would recommend, - Galbraith said dryly.

Having made himself comfortable and slammed the door, the inspector had to wait until the driver collected his thoughts.

- I have "Clair'n'Tone" in mind, - he said fifteen seconds later.
- What's that? - the passenger asked indifferently.
- Vanitas-restaurant, - answered the driver, pressing the pedal.

The car started moving, and Galbraith, not trying to delve into the meaning of the driver’s last words, stared out the window. He decided to trust someone who knew London because he didn't want to find a restaurant himself. His sad experience with the "Orcinus Orca Osteria" made him abandon any attempts to personally find places for the rest. "Yes", he thought, "It would certainly be much easier if I were an ordinary tourist, whom the guide almost leads by the hand, but alas, his incognito travel put an end to such conveniences". The inspector watched how, during the trip, the urban view outside the window was gradually replaced by rural landscapes.

"Wow, how far away this "Clair'n'Tone" apparently is", thought Galbraith. Couldn't a native Londoner recommend a restaurant that was in the city center? Is it possible - here the inspector involuntarily smiled - in the center of the capital of England there are such terrible restaurants that Londoners prefer to dine almost in the middle of nowhere? But he did not have time to think this thought through to the end.

- Get out, - the driver abruptly said rudely
- What, are we there yet? - Galbraith woke up, turning away from the window.
- I reiterate, get out, - the taxi driver repeated without malice, but firmly.
- All right, as you please, - the inspector opened the door and got out of the car.
- I'll refuel and come back for you, - the driver shouted after him and turned on the ignition.

Galbraith watched his car. "Hmm", he thought, "The taxi driver’s behavior is strange - what’s the difference whether he will refuel with or without a passenger?" The inspector took his eyes off the yellow car that had already disappeared in the distance and looked around. He stood by a wooden fence, behind which he could see a one-story cottage of not particularly attractive appearance. What surprised Galbraith was that this was the only house in the area - the rest of the landscape was a steppe without a single tree, with grass scorched by the sun. "What kind of place is it?", the inspector asked himself.

The next second, a bark reached his ears. The dog that made it, as Galbraith realized, was behind the fence outside of which he was now standing. He took a couple of steps from the fence, when suddenly he saw a man walking from the side of the road towards the wicket. Some inner feeling forced the inspector to hide. The stranger's strong build - one might even say gorilla-like - with his broad shoulders and the black hat pulled down over his eyes together created a rather menacing impression. As the man began to approach the fence, the dog's barking became louder. Galbraith noticed how he slightly slowed down his pace and, right as he walked, put his right hand in the pocket of his black, formal jacket. The inspector watched in silent amazement as the man took out of his pocket a pistol, shining in the midday sun - somewhat similar to those used by the fascists in the Second World War - and, cocking the trigger, stopped at the wicket. "I should have retreated to a safe place", Galbraith thought, watching as the stranger stood in a threatening pose and held his weapon out in front of him.

The next second, the muscular man sharply jerked his leg forward. "Wow, he has strength", Galbraith thought, looking at how the wicket immediately gave in to his kick. Suddenly a shot rang out, and a high, heart-rending dog scream reached the inspector’s ears. "That's it", Galbraith thought, "This thug is shooting at an animal..." But be that as it may, he, hiding around the corner of the fence, did not take any action, because he understood that in a foreign country, and even in some deserted place, it was better to try to stay away from trouble. Therefore, when, after five shots, a cry from a young man was suddenly heard from behind the fence - apparently the owner of the house - Galbraith only dryly stated the fact that the poor dog would never again have to run around the glade for butterflies...

After the man with the weapon stepped over the threshold of the wicket, Galbraith finally decided to see what was going on there. He slowly, trying not to make any noise, walked forward and stopped at such a distance that he could see what was happening inside the site. A massacre was taking place there - a gorilla-like man in a hat, who no longer had a pistol in his hands, was inflicting strong kicks on some young guy in a white shirt who was lying under his feet. The inspector, peering into what was happening, noted that he could not find the dog’s corpse. He made the assumption that the killer probably threw the animal away from the gate, or that the dog, not being completely killed, crawled to the side. Trying to comprehend what was happening, Galbraith could not help but notice that the killer’s movements were somewhat hesitant, as if he was afraid that the kicks would cause severe damage. Usually, the policeman thought, killers act on the dictates of instinct and completely indulge in the feeling of aggression, but the body language of this man was as if he was not really beating the guy, but was only pretending to fake the beating...

Suddenly Galbraith heard a car stop behind him. He turned around - it turns out that the taxi driver really did not deceive him and returned for his passenger.

- Get in, we're moving on, - the taxi driver shouted from the window.

The inspector feverishly opened the door and climbed into the car, simultaneously hitting the top of his head against its ceiling. He wanted to quickly leave this place, but he had to wait - the driver, quietly cursing, fiddled with the ignition key, which did not want to turn. Galbraith, whose heart was beating wildly, glanced out the window. A muscular man in a black jacket, distracted by the sound of an approaching car, left the beating of the young guy and turned towards the road. At the same time, his hat involuntarily flew off his head, and the inspector was finally able to see his face.

- My goodness, it is... - Galbraith whispered with just his lips

But he didn’t have time to finish - the taxi driver finally managed to turn the ignition key, and the car moved sharply forward. Due to the suddenness of this maneuver, the inspector did not have time to react in time and his face was buried in the back of the front seat. Galbraith leaned back in his seat with a curse, feeling that a lump was slowly beginning to swell on his forehead.

- Did you hit a little? - the taxi driver asked without a hint of sympathy.
- Never mind, - his passenger answered, feeling the haematoma.

Overcoming the pain, Galbraith lowered his hand and, trying to position himself as comfortably as possible, began to think about the event that he happened to observe a couple of minutes ago. The killer, as he managed to notice, had facial features very similar to pharmaceutist mister Yonce - the same prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes and a powerful jaw. "Another doppelgaenger, or more accurately, dreifachgaenger?" thought the inspector. But Galbraith was confused by the fact that this particular person’s face had a grayish tint, which stood out strongly against the background of the stranger’s pink ears and neck. As if some kind of sunscreen was applied to the man's face, or... Galbraith admitted a crazy theory that this man wore a mask on his face in order to resemble father of the late Delia.

- Staging, - whispered the inspector.

Yes, this is exactly the word he used to describe this incident - what he saw, with a high degree of probability, could have been an imitation, a skillfully played performance. Galbraith immediately remembered the words of his late friend - he said that when he, along with a police squad, was going to arrest mister Thurlow, they got to the criminal’s house just at the moment when mister Yonce used a pistol to kill the Jordan's dog and began to trample him owner of the house.

The inspector compared Pharqraut's story with what he saw now. Yes, he was not an eyewitness to that incident, but all the details coincided. Except that he never saw the dog - it seemed that instead of a real animal behind the fence there was a record player hidden from prying eyes that played a tape with pre-recorded sounds of barking. "Quite a logical explanation", he thought. Then it was clear why this dreifachgaenger had such strange body plasticity - he did not really beat the guy, but only played the beating scene, like an actor on a theatre stage. The only thing that was unclear was who staged this “performance” and why. And most importantly, for what purpose, for whom was this whole presentation intended...

At that moment the car stopped moving.

- So, we're already here, - muttered the driver.

The inspector woke up from his thoughts and opened the door, preparing to get out of the car.

- Wait a minute, - the driver said and stuck a piece of paper into his hand.
- Why did you give this to me? - Galbraith asked as he began to unwrap it
- I just want to tell you that if you have any questions, just call this number, - having said this, the driver turned away and took the wheel.

In the end, the inspector climbed out and, without even looking at the departing car, began to look at the piece of paper. There were only two lines in it - a telephone number [phone] and a name "H. Berneasy". Hmm, Galbraith thought, why did the taxi driver decide that he, a random passenger whom he saw for the first time in his life, might need him... He thought about doctor Baselard again - why shouldn’t this doctor really give money to a random person with his own car, so that at the right moment he would drive up to the hotel where the inspector was staying, take him to his place and take him to the right places...

- That's ridiculous, - the inspector said with a grin.

Stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket, Galbraith raised his head. He stood near a four-story building that had all sorts of cafes and storefronts. The taxi driver dropped the inspector off at the modest entrance, above which hung a sign "Clair'n'Tone". Looking at these blue neon letters, Galbraith involuntarily noticed to himself that because of this Baselard, he had developed such paranoia that if we develop the idea that doctor is behind everything in this world, then in the heat of the moment you can get to the point where if you start digging the Bible, it turns out that Eve gave the apple to Adam not on the inspiration of some abstract serpent-tempter, but only because this was the request of doctor Baselard, who pursued the idea of killing the little girl Delia, who would be born many generations later in the family of the pharmaceutist Yonce...

- Oh girl, - the inspector said quietly. - Why are you leading me into your obscurity?

These words were addressed to emptiness, for Galbraith did not expect to hear an answer to them. He couldn't get it anyway - Delia Yonce was buried at River View Cemetery, not far from the grave of first Portland's female mayor. Her funeral went unnoticed by the town, because no one cared about some pharmaceutist's daughter. Nobody wrote in The Asian Reporter a note "Under The X-acto Knife", on her grave not even her most distant relative sat and especially not one of her classmates came there and asked with tears in their eyes "Delia, Delia, can you hear your friend?". The only one who truly sympathized with the girl from those gathered at the farewell ceremony was Galbraith himself, who, after standing at the head of her grave for some time, laid a bouquet of dahlias of different colours on her grave and silently walked away, leaving the funeral procession to be tormented by guesses about the connection this gloomy, mustachioed policeman with a deceased.

If Galbraith himself had been asked about this, he would have answered them "Was there such a connection at all?". Indeed, in his entire life, the inspector saw this little girl only once - when he came to the Yonce family home on the matter of her mother's suicide... But even these short minutes of their meeting were enough to understand that it was on him, Galbraith, that the future fate of this child depended. Alas, a call from mister chief inspector Schaeymoure then separated them, and he had to leave Delia in the care of an inadequate man from Federal Bureau of Investigation and doctor Matt MacLaren, a kind-hearted but essentially spineless person...

Galbraith distracted himself from these sad thoughts and noticed that although it was October outside, through the window of the "Clair'n'Tone" establishment, where he had been standing all this time, shiny silver fir-trees were clearly visible. He involuntarily admired them - the decorations were cut out of foil and hung in the same place where the curtains were attached

- I don't argue, it's beautiful, but somehow it's not the season, - he said thoughtfully to himself.

The inspector opened the door and, entering a small elongated hall, realized that he had not imagined. Not only the facade of the cafe, but also its interior was completely decorated for Christmas - LED garlands and fir-tree cones were hung on the walls and there were toy figures of some animals hanging from the ceiling. The only thing missing was appropriate music, Galbraith thought, and hypothesized that apparently the owners of this establishment were such lazy people that they had forgotten to remove the decorations since last year.

He glanced at the counter, then noticed the tables. The inspector went to the very end of the hall, where the order receiving area was located. Sitting down on a small soft sofa at the table, Galbraith put his hands on the table and noticed with some dissatisfaction that besides him and one waitress there was no one else in this room. Apparently, people living in the area knew what awaited them in this cafe and therefore tried to avoid it. While waiting for the girl to deign to pay attention to him, the inspector looked around - now that he had already gotten used to inappropriate decorations of "Clair'n'Tone", he was able to pay attention to the high ceilings and rustic scarlet walls. Richly, Galbraith thought, and this circumstance changed his attitude towards the establishment for the better than it had been from the very beginning. He even caught himself thinking that there was something in that on a hot October day sitting in a room that involuntarily transports him several months into the future.

Five minutes later, the waitress, who had previously been running between tables with a white rag, finally deigned to pay attention to Galbraith and approached his table.

- Welcome, what's your pleasure? - the blonde girl asked modestly.

Galbraith looked up at her. Beautiful, he thought. Her slender figure was emphasized by a light dress that tightly fit her graceful waist and high chest.

- Could I see the menu? - he just asked.

The waitress handed him a sheet of glossy paper folded in half, and Galbraith thanked him and took the menu in his hands. Having glanced over the contents, he was quite surprised by the small size of the list - only two dishes were indicated in it. He remembered that the taxi driver, recommending this establishment, called it an unfamiliar word “Vanitas-restaurant”. Apparently, an establishment with a claim to something original, Galbraith thought. Then it could be clear why the interior was decorated out of season...

The inspector carefully studied the menu - the first course was a cocktail with the strange name "Sujeira". "Sierra, chain of mountains?" Galbraith asked himself. Under the picture of a glass with a thin stem, the ingredients were indicated - cognac, water, sugar, lemon juice.

- What does it mean? - he asked the waitress standing at the table.
- It's cognac with caramel syrup, - she answered with downcast eyes in a gentle voice.
- Huh... - Galbraith was quite surprised at such a strange combination of ingredients.
- This is a very light drink, because the syrup softens the strength of the alcohol, - the girl explained.
- So what, visitors order this slipslop there? - Galbraith was even more surprised.
- A highly tasty cocktail, - the girl said confidently. - Try it yourself.
- Okay, I'll take your word for it, - the inspector said and continued to study the menu.

In addition to this incomprehensible cocktail, on the inner spread of the glossy paper there was another line "Jantar". Just this name and that's all - no picture, no composition. He didn't even try to understand the meaning of this word.

- What is this? - Galbraith pointed a finger.
- This is the dish, - the waitress answered.
- It was fairly obvious, but what it represents? - the inspector involuntarily began to be irritated by the girl's playful tone.
- The recipe of "Jantar" is the trade secret, - she answered with dignity.
- Well, I order everything that's on this menu, - Galbraith waved his hand in anger.

The waitress made a slight bow and, taking the menu from the table, gave the guest a charming smile and left. The inspector looked after her for a while, and then, again staring ahead, thought that the establishment was very strange - only two dishes, of which one had an idiotic composition, and the second only had its name... Galbraith had a suspicion that the chefs of this establishment were clearly cooking not for clients who almost never came to them, but to satisfy their personal whims. He even felt a wave of cold and sticky sweat run down his back for no apparent reason.

Three minutes later the waitress returned to his table.

- Here's your order, - she said in the same gentle voice.

She placed a tray in front of him, on which stood a glass of brown liquid and a clay bowl of salad. In addition, there was a fork wrapped in a white napkin nearby.

- Thank you, - Galbraith said with some disappointment to the girl, who immediately walked away.

Yes, he thought, looking at the dishes, he shouldn't have expected anything supernatural from the absurdity that was listed on the menu. He was even involuntarily glad that under the word "Jantar" there was not some boiled shoe stuffed with nails, but just a regular salad... The inspector decided to start with a cocktail. Taking a sip from a tall glass, he was convinced that the combination of cognac and caramel syrup was terrible not only in words, but also in taste. Galbraith shuddered with disgust, but he did not spit out the liquid, instead swallowing it whole, comforting himself with the thought that they eat cockroaches in China...

As a result, he moved the glass away from him and, picking up a fork, looked at the clay bowl. Compared to the cocktail, what was in it could be called quite ordinary food - lettuce leaves mixed with finely grated cheese and rye croutons. Yes, the vaunted "Jantar" was just a simple Caesar salad, only without the sauce. Galbraith, who expected the worst, involuntarily sighed with relief and began to eat. The salad was tasteless, which was obvious - without meat and sauce, chewing dry leaves and croutons seemed quite boring, but, oddly enough, it was edible. The inspector didn't even notice how two minutes later he emptied the clay bowl and, wiping his hands on a napkin, leaned back on the soft sofa on which he was sitting.

Suddenly Galbraith's attention was attracted by a person who, before his eyes, entered the "Clair'n'Tone premises. It was a little girl, she looked like she was about five or six years old. She had large, gentle eyes and a head of thick golden hair, which contrasted strongly with her pale face. She was dressed in a gray woolen sweater that reached her knees and a skirt of an undetermined dark colour. In her right hand she was holding a waffle cone with two light blue scoops of ice cream. The delicacy gave her whole figure fragility and a certain touchingness.

The baby girl walked uncertainly through the hall, looking around from time to time, as if looking for someone. She didn't even look in Galbraith's direction, but she raised her head several times - apparently she was looking at the toys hanging from the ceiling. Finally, she walked up to the counter and stopped, fascinated by the figurine of a goldfish swaying on a thin thread. The girl had her back to the inspector, so he did not see her face, but he noticed how the child extended his hand towards the toy.

Then a girl with high chest - a waitress - approached his table. Bowing to Galbraith, she placed the open leather accountant in front of him. He scanned the lines - the bill stated that he would have to pay about six pounds sterling for both dishes. The inspector reached into his pocket where his wallet lay.

- Well, how did you like it? - asked the waitress, playfully looking at the guest
- Keep your money, and goodbye, - Galbraith said dryly.

Having said this, he took out money from his wallet. The waitress looked intently into his eyes, and, collecting the coins from the table, left. Galbraith got up from the soft sofa and, glancing at the little girl in a sweater who continued to look at the toy, moved towards the exit of this place. Coming outside, the inspector noticed that while he was sitting in this vanitas-restaurant, it had already become dark outside. Galbraith, looking around, felt some uncertainty - he understood that it was almost impossible for him to navigate the local conditions, but he had to somehow get to his hotel... Excitedly, he put his hand into his pocket and felt for a piece of paper. He pulled it out, Galbraith unwrapped it and brought it to his eyes. It was the same phone number that the taxi driver had given him then.

- So, Berneasy, I'll have to resort to your services, - the inspector said sarcastically.

Still holding the piece of paper in his hands, he raised his head and saw a telephone booth on the other side of the street. Since there were almost no cars on the street at that time, it was easy for Galbraith to cross the road and pull the door towards himself. A few more seconds, and the inspector was already standing next to the telephone. Having dropped the coin into the slot, Galbraith, checking the piece of paper, dialed the number [phone] and raised the receiver to his ear. First he heard long beeps coming from the receiver. Then there was a click in it, after which a sleepy male voice was heard, slightly distorted by interference:

- Hello, I am listening to you.

The inspector was quite surprised to hear this voice, which belonged to none other than his old friend lieutenant Nelissen.

- Nelissen, buddy, is that you? - at the sound of a familiar voice, a shiver of joy ran through Galbraith’s body.
- Galbraith? At long last it's you! - a young voice responded cheerfully. - I was beginning to worry. where've you been?
- In London as you know... - Galbraith fell silent.
- What's wrong, cat got your tongue? - Nelissen asked somewhat impudently.
- Give me the explanation, - the inspector began. - How is it that I called a London taxi driver but got on a Portland police department?
- Speak softly, - it seemed that Nelissen missed the words of his interlocutor deaf ears. - Somebody might hear us.
- I'm fine not caring about... - Galbraith said with some resentment, but the young lieutenant interrupted him.
- Do not contest me, - a young voice said rudely. - The information I will give you is not for prying eyes.
- All right, - the inspector gave in to his friend's pressure. - What do you want me to say?
- Couple of news, - the lieutenant answered with a sense of importance.
- Well, according to tradition, firstly... - Galbraith wanted to say "good, and then bad", but he was not allowed to finish.
- If you find something good in any of this news, then I can congratulate you on being such a katagelastic!
- What? - the inspector asked, who had never encountered this word, in bewilderment.
- It doesn't matter, - Nelissen again avoided answering. - May I begin then?
- Okay, let's go, - he encouraged his interlocutor.
- Good, then listen to me, - the voice answered with a sense of importance. - Do you remember Jordan Thurlow?
- How can I not remember, I personally interrogated him, - Galbraith said somewhat offended.
- Of course, all know this already, - the lieutenant said reproachfully. - As well as the fact that after the audience with him you were not at all interested in his fate.
- Oh... - sighed the inspector.

Nelissen’s words were fair - Galbraith, having received from mister Thurlow information about Delia Yonce, actually completely forgot about this person, because it seemed to him that there was nothing to even remember about some lawbreaker who would be released only after sixteen years. For the inspector, the perpetrator was something like a plant in a pot - he sits in one place, does not do anything... Only, unlike a plant, the criminal has no charisma...

- Basically, the day after you said goodbye to him, - the lieutenant interrupted Galbraith's thoughts. - A prison guard entered Jordan's prison cell and found him lying prone on the floor.
- He was dead? - the inspector guessed.
- Yes, - Nelissen answered dryly.
- I wonder why he's so fast kicked the bucket, - Galbraith expressed his thoughts out loud.
- A forensic examination determined that Jordan's death was due to oxygen deprivation of the brain, - as if reading from a piece of paper, a young voice said.
- Hmm... - his interlocutor thought.
- Lesley Watmough, the pathologist who performed the autopsy on the prisoner's body discovered something interesting, - the lieutenant returned to his familiar tone.
- And what? - Galbraith perked up.
- He discovered a malignant tumour in Jordan's larynx, - Nelissen answered, lowering his voice. - Laryngeal cancer in a few words.

Hearing this, Galbraith involuntarily remembered the phrase of the twitchy parlourmaid from "Stait of Snow Lake" that the old concierge was taken to the hospital on suspicion of cancer, but Nelissen continued to talk.

- In general, Lesley said that this is a rather rare case, because usually people get this disease by the age of fifty, and Jordan, as you remember...
- I'm aware of that, - Galbraith interrupted the lieutenant. - That's all?
- That's it with Jordan, now about Delia, - it seemed as if the invisible interlocutor smiled.
- What, her too... - the inspector was surprised.
- No, who would have thought of digging her out of the grave? - having said this, the lieutenant burst into laughter.
- All right, knock it off, - for some reason it was unpleasant for Galbraith to hear this
- Okay, - Nelissen immediately stopped. - It's like this, as you were preparing to board the plane, we continued our investigation...
- No, really? - Galbraith was involuntarily surprised. - I thought all had shelved on this case...
- Do not interrupt. We discovered that after the hysterectomy surgeons extracted something from her womb... - the lieutenant stopped as if catching his breath.
- So what did they extract? - the inspector was a little tensed by this pause.
- Caetlynn Armour called this thing as Fetus papyraceous, according to her, this is when a female twin carries a second embryo inside.
- Stupid and unscientific bullshit, - Galbraith involuntarily cursed dirtily.
- Well, what do you want from this modern medicine... - the lieutenant seemed to be thinking about something.
- All right, they found it, so what's next? - the inspector was burning with impatience.
- In short, they donated it to the Oregon College of Oriental Medicine, - Nelissen replied.
- Wait, what's this for? - Galbraith was involuntarily surprised.
- As a medical exhibit, what did you think? - the young voice chuckled.
- Nothing of the kind... - the inspector stopped mid-sentence.
- There, of course, this thing was immediately placed in a glass vessel with formaldehyde, - the lieutenant began. - And when I learned about this, I did not restrain myself and immediately went to this college.
- What did you see? - Galbraith was very interested at that second
- Well... - his interlocutor began to remember. - A lots of students crowded around the vessel - do not feed bread, just let them peek at new wonderment.
- Quite curious, - Galbraith grinned.
- They stood around and discussed it, - continued the lieutenant. - One guy noticed that this thing looked a lot like the larva of Rosalia longicorn, and someone fainted...
- Who exactly? - for some reason the inspector was interested in this fact.
- Two young gals, - the invisible interlocutor clicked his tongue. - Apparently they were afraid that when they got pregnant, something like this would grow inside them.

Galbraith involuntarily thought that it turned out quite ironically - the girl was saved from the parasite, which everyone admires, but no one even thinks about the one from whom it was extracted, there is not even a question of sympathy

- God's got a sick sense of humour, - the inspector said gloomily into the phone.
- I didn't understand, what are you trying to say? - the lieutenant said in bewilderment.
- Forget it, I was just thinking out loud, - Galbraith said honestly. - But what was this thing anyway?
- You know, I think Caetlynn Armor named this thing Fetus papyraceous on the spur of the moment because it didn't look like an embryo, - the young man spoke mysteriously.
- So what could it look like? - his interlocutor did not understand.
- Let's imagine a Sea urchin, - the lieutenant began to explain.
- Shell? - Galbraith interrupted him
- No, alive, - the young man corrected him.
- Well, I did, - the inspector hastily answered.

Galbraith drew in his mind a red ball, studded with long needles, which could only exist at the bottom of the ocean.

- So, this ersatz Sea urchin swam there in formaldehyde, - Nelissen said. - And I, looking at this, thought that it was...
- Parasite? - Galbraith suggested.
- Worse, - the interlocutor answered. - The parasite is still a separate organism, harmful, but if desired, it can be removed without loss to the host, but here...
- Don't stir things up, please, - the inspector suddenly wanted this conversation to finally end.
- Imagine, my friend, that when you were conceived, a second brain formed in your lungs, - a young voice deviated from the topic.
- What nonsense? - Galbraith was surprised by this analogy.
- Listen to this, - the lieutenant said angrily. - It would be a completely useless appendage that would absorb the excess energy of your body, but it would not do anything useful.
- I have no idea but that was really interestingly, - The inspector remarked sarcastically.
- ...but since you have this from birth, you think that this is the norm, - Nelissen continued.

Galbraith thought that there was some logic in this - after all, a person really cannot know that others actually feel about their organism.

- And therefore, - said the lieutenant. - Trying to remove this organ can lead to serious complications because your body...
- Are you saying that the chances of Delia surviving were zero? - the inspector immediately asked.
- With this thing inside, I don't know, - a young voice answered calmly. - But it is a fact that removing of it led to death.
- Poor girl... - Galbraith sighed sadly.
- But I can say one thing for sure, - continued Nelissen. - Even if she wanted to, a girl as an adult could not conceive and bear a child.
- Hmm... - the inspector scratched his moustache.
- Do you think that if you have some kind of thing grown into your womb, then there will be a place for the baby there too? - the young lieutenant suddenly became angry.
- I wouldn't think such a thing, - Galbraith was slightly hurt by these words.
- Okay, let's end the conversation, - changing his tone, the lieutenant said. - I am afraid that the call may be intercepted by inquisitive gentlemen from The Metropolitan Police Service.

After these words there was a click and beeps started - Nelissen ended the call. In the silence that reigned, Galbraith sighed with some relief, and, wiping the sweat on his forehead, hung up the telephone receiver. Opening the door, he walked out of the phone booth onto the street and took a deep breath of the damp evening air. He thought that if anyone was interested in this telephone conversation, it most likely would not be the police, but The Maudsley Hospital. Moreover, as he believed, this would be completely fair - recently the inspector had experienced such events that if he tried to describe them to a stranger, this could cause him the most serious suspicions regarding his mental health. Yes, Galbraith thought, falling into the hands of doctors from The Maudsley Hospital would not be such a bad idea - if such an event actually happened, he would most likely be guaranteed silence, soft walls, white coats...

Standing at the telephone booth, he suddenly noticed that on the opposite side of the road, next to the newsstand, was standing the same young man in a red shirt, looking like a Japanese popstar, whom Galbraith had seen this morning under the hotel window. At first, the inspector involuntarily panicked - his breathing quickened and his heart began to pound - but then he remembered the good old trick, the essence of which was that you should not show the person watching you your fear, so that he does not become convinced that he can influence you. And then Galbraith, straightening his shoulders, boldly moved towards the restaurant, thinking about how to get to his hotel.

He imagined how he would stand for a long time in the cold air with his arm outstretched in front of him in order to attract the attention of passing cars... To his surprise, as he approached the front of Clair'n'Tone, he noticed that there was a yellow car parked right in front of the doors. Galbraith quickened his pace and, raising his hand, shouted to the driver to wait. Approaching the car, he leaned towards the glass. The driver looked at him in surprise.

- Queensborough Terrace, hotel "Stait of Snow Lake", - Galbraith said hastily.

The man nodded without further ado, and the inspector opened the door, leaned back in the back seat, after which the driver turned the ignition key and the car moved smoothly, drove out onto a wide street and rushed forward, towards the center. Galbraith simply looked at the views of the night city flashing outside the window, without indulging in any thoughts. He noticed that the streets gradually became wider, the houses around became higher, illuminated shop windows and billboards began to appear outside the window, on which flashing colourful inscriptions flashed, calling on random passers-by to visit this or that shopping center, go to a bar and order there a glass of beer, or at least buy unnecessary change at some booth... Contemplating the world of London at night, the inspector gradually calmed down and relaxed.

- Listen, good sir, you'll probably have to look for another hotel! - suddenly the taxi driver's voice was heard.

This remark snapped Galbraith out of the meditative state into which he had fallen. Twitching like a frightened bird, the inspector stared at the back of the driver's head.

- What are you speaking about? - Galbraith asked with uncertainty.
- It's best you take a look for yourself! - the man waved his hand in front of him.

The passenger moved closer and, squinting, began to peer into the windshield. They had already left for Queensborough Terrace and were already approaching their destination, but what the inspector saw involuntarily threw him into a consternation - the four-story building "Stait of Snow Lake" was on fire - the flames engulfed the first two floors of the building and gradually reached the roof. "Well, for heaven's sakes!" Galbraith thought to himself.

For a couple of moments, he admitted the suppose that it was the work of that twitchy parlourmaid. "This blithering idiot apparently accidentally placed the heater next to the curtain..." This hypothesis arose from him because he had no doubt that all the hotel equipment in the "Stait of Snow Lake" was in the same condition as the room that he happened to rent from them. "Short circuit, spark and that's it..." he thought nervously.

- Stop the car! - barely containing his excitement, he shouted to the driver.
- What's the use, good sir, your things are probably already burned, - with some reluctance, the driver pressed the brake.

The inspector was not going to argue with the taxi driver and quickly opened the door. But before he jumped out into the street, the driver turned back to the passenger.

- I’ll wait for you here, otherwise you never know, you’ll need to go to the airport or depot... - he said in a conspiratorial tone.

Already getting out of the car, Galbraith involuntarily remembered the mysterious taxi driver, who, judging by his business card, had the name "H. Berneasy". It seemed to him that both drivers had something in common, at least the intonation and timbre of their voices. But he had no time to think about it, and he moved towards the hotel. In the darkness of the night, the building of "Stait of Snow Lake" literally glowed in the gloom, and therefore it was not difficult for Galbraith to immediately notice the people crowding around the scene of the incident. The inspector wanted to ask someone from the crowd how long ago the fire had started, and he began to peer into the faces of the onlookers. He himself could not explain exactly what criteria a person who could be a guest of this hotel had to meet.

After a couple of minutes of searching, Galbraith’s gaze settled on a obese man in a lilac shirt. He looked to be about thirty-five years old. For some reason, the inspector was attracted to this person - apparently, the point was that in appearance he was somewhat similar to himself - the stranger had the same black the painter’s brush moustache and slightly wavy hair. Galbraith ran up to this man, who, looking at the burning hotel, was smoking a thick cigar with a kind of detached look.

- Please forgive me... - the inspector addressed him with respect.

The man turned his head slightly towards Galbraith and blew out a cloud of tobacco smoke. "I hope he won't mind", the policeman got nervous.

- Where's the fire team? - Galbraith asked a leading question.
- They is right there! - the man in the lilac shirt took a drag and waved his hand to the side.

The inspector looked where the onlooker pointed. And in fact, there were two red fire trucks parked outside the "Stait of Snow Lake". People in black uniforms with green stripes on their sleeves scurried around and tried to cope with the fire consuming the building.

- You don't know when the fire started? - Galbraith sent another question.
- I'd like to know more about this! - the man exclaimed with annoyance and blew out a ring of smoke again.

Galbraith stood next to this smoker and, involuntarily inhaling the smoke of his cigar, thought about exactly who was responsible for this accident. The version with a faulty heater seemed too banal - as a police inspector, it seemed to him that behind the fire there was clearly a certain person who was pursuing some of his own goals. Of course, thoughts of doctor Baselard immediately entered his head. "Why not", thought Galbraith, standing next to a mustachioed obese man. "In the morning there was a visit from a suspicious specialist who, after checking that I was definitely staying at this hotel, gave a sign to Baselard and he took care of the fire... Although no, this is some kind of paranoia", he concluded.

- Alas, what a shame, - the silence was broken by an onlooker in a lilac shirt. - I paid about four thousand five hundred bucks for half a month, "All inclusive"...
- Wait a minute, you are an American? - having heard that the interlocutor named the price in dollars, Galbraith perked up.
- I'm from Toronto, - answered his interlocutor. - I came here to spend my vacation, only two days left before returning to Canada.
- Thanks for the reply, - the inspector said calmly. - That is, you don’t know how many people are trapped there?

With these words he nodded towards the burning building of "Stait of Snow Lake".

- I don't care about them, - the obese man said dissatisfied. - I just went out for a walk before dinner, came back, and then this!

Having uttered these words, the onlooker in the lilac shirt angrily threw the cigar to the ground and trampled the f*g-end with force. "An typical American", thought Galbraith. "Personal happiness is everything, don't care about the rest of humanity. Some unfinished supper is more important for this tourist than the lives of the people who died in the fire..." The inspector didn't think about at all that the Canadians - because this man, according to him, was from there - are proud that they are not Americans, because for Galbraith, born in England, both these countries were one.

- Now, because of these dullards, I will have to contact the embassy to have my burned documents restored... - the obese man said in a fallen voice and trudged up the street.

Looking after person in lilac shirt, Galbraith remembered that he himself also left his things in the room. He checked his pockets - thank God, he managed to take his wallet and visa this morning. Having calmed down, he noticed with some surprise that of all the things he had left at the hotel, he was sorry to lose only materials on the Pharqraut's case investigation.

- Mister Galbraith? - suddenly someone's insinuating voice was heard from behind.

Hearing his name, the inspector immediately turned around - standing behind him was an elderly man of small stature, in a black uniform and with a uniform cap. On his shoulder hung a large leather bag, emblazoned with a brass label "Royal Mail".

- Sorry, you talking to me now? - he asked the postmaster.

It was somewhat unexpected for the inspector to hear his name from a complete stranger, and the fact that it was the postmaster made Galbraith somewhat tense, because he could not imagine who could send him a letter here in the capital of England.

- I was ordered to deliver the envelope to mister Galbraith, who was staying at the "State of Snow Lake" hotel, - the man in uniform began in a dull voice.
- But how did you recognize me? - the inspector asked incredulously.
- Recognize? I just asked, - his interlocutor answered calmly.

With these words, the postmaster opened his heavy leather bag and began to rummage through it.

- Well, give me the parcel then, - said Galbraith and looked around nervously.
- Before that, - postmaster took something out of the bag. - You must write a receipt for delivery.
- Okay, If you must, just give me a minute, - the inspector shrugged his shoulders.

Taking the paper and pen from the postmaster's hands, he began to look for where to sign. While he was doing this, his interlocutor, exuding some kind of solemn aura with his very appearance, stood motionless nearby.

- Here you go, - Galbraith soon returned the receipt and pen to the postmaster.

The man in uniform put them in his bag and, taking out an envelope from there, without further ado handed it to the stunned inspector and, turning around, disappeared into the darkness of the night. Having received the unexpected parcel, Galbraith brought it to his eyes and began to examine it.

Galbraith noted that there was not a single mark or even a stamp on the thick white paper that made up the envelope - it seemed as if the postmaster had handed the inspector not a real letter, but an element of theatrical props. The only thing that cast doubt on this was that the contents inside could be felt through the envelope.

- Hey, good sir! - a hoarse shout was heard.

Galbraith, who was about to open the parcel, involuntarily shuddered. It turns out that it was a taxi driver who was standing next to his car and, leaning on the door, holding a smoking cigarette in his hand. The inspector was able to get a good look at his face - the man had a short-cropped head, sharp cheekbones and a straight nose stood out clearly on his tanned face. His brown eyes looked at the policeman almost with a fatherly reproach. Galbraith did not perfectly remember the exact features of the mysterious "H. Berneasy", but taking the opportunity to take a good look at the taxi driver standing in front of him, he noticed that he was still completely different from the bald and old man who took him to the vanitas-restaurant.

- What's the matter? - Galbraith asked calmly.

The taxi driver blew a smoke ring from his mouth and flicked the ash off his cigarette.

- Mister foreigner wants to go to the airport or depot now? - the man turned to him slyly.
- Huh, where is this coming from? - the inspector was somewhat outraged that some taxi driver should know better what he needed to do.
- What else can you do if your hotel burns down? Unless you go to another... - the taxi driver began to explain.
- Wait, let me to get my thoughts together, - Galbraith interrupted him and turned away.

For some reason, the inspector was unpleasant in this man’s gaze, but he could not help but notice that there was common sense in his words. With his arms crossed over his chest, Galbraith was lost in thought. This completely random London taxi driver, without knowing it, presented him with a difficult dilemma. Its essence was that the inspector had to decide whether he would capitulate in his mission to capture doctor Baselard, or whether he would continue it to the bitter end. The second option was definitely more difficult, since Galbraith had little chance of finding one unnoticed person hidden in the wilds of the megalopolis. While the inspector was deciding what to do, the taxi driver had already thrown the cigarette on the ground and was getting into the car.

- Well, good sir, think faster, otherwise I’ll leave and you’ll have to get where you need to go yourself, - sitting behind the wheel, the taxi driver shouted from the window.

Galbraith turned around and walked towards the car - he didn't want to let go of this car. Not even because it was so difficult for him to catch another taxi, no - he just subconsciously wanted to lean on someone he knew for at least a little more than a couple of seconds. The inspector felt the situation getting increasingly out of control. When he reached the car, he opened the door and climbed into the back seat.

- You don't know where "Makoto Computerization Institute" is located? - he asked the driver.

He did not remember the address indicated on the business card - only this unusual name left a mark on Galbraith's memory. The taxi driver, hearing the passenger's words, wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed. Apparently he was trying to understand what the inspector was talking about.

- Good sir apparently means "Mon-Tec"? - after a minute of silence the man asked.
- What kind of place it is? - Galbraith heard this word for the first time.
- There was such an electrical engineering plant, then its owner changed and it was converted into a research institute of electronic technologies, - explained the taxi driver.
- Well, I think I should go there, - the inspector said with some uncertainty.

He remembered that the mysterious morning visitor introduced himself to him as a computer technology specialist, so, putting two and two together, it turned out that the taxi driver indicated the right place, but under the wrong name.

- I didn't even know it was renamed, - the taxi driver said meanwhile, turning on the ignition. - I believed that they left a trademark familiar to people.

When the car finally started moving, Galbraith leaned back in his seat. He made the decision to go to this institute in the heat of the moment - this same taxi driver simply did not give him enough time to think. But the inspector noticed to himself that this action made sense - because if that specialist was actually affiliated with doctor Baselard, then Galbraith had a fairly good reason to visit this mysterious place. "Who knows", he thought, "Maybe that’s there I can complete my mission". Be that as it may, he did not have a plan for further action - he did not know what exactly he would do upon arrival at this institute.

Events developed so quickly that the only thing he could count on was luck. If only because it is not a fact that if he arrives there, he will be able to find doctor Baselard there. But what if luck smiles on him and the person he is looking for is actually located there? The inspector imagined how, seeing the doctor in the corridor, he approached him and declared in an authoritative voice "In the name of the law, you're under arrest". And Baselard, looking at him with a gentle reproach from his small senile eyes, scratched his gray hair and answered him "Policeman of America has no power here in England, so you have no right to imprison me". And, grinning, he will go about his business in some office, leaving Galbraith standing in place with a stupid look...

Suddenly Galbraith remembered that he was still holding the envelope in his hands, which he had never bothered to open since receiving it. The inspector, who did not have scissors at hand, tore the bottom corner and tore the envelope in half. A folded sheet of paper and a small A7 sheet of cardboard fell into his lap.First, the policeman examined the cardboard - on its glossy aquamarine-coloured surface there were red letters of the English alphabet in two rows, each letter was respectively accompanied by a phonetic script and a index number. Galbraith was quite surprised that an unknown person sent him an item of educational equipment for a preschooler. He turned the card over, hoping that there might be something handwritten on the back, but alas, there was nothing more than a tiny inscription "(c) York Medieval Press, 1991" in the lower right corner.

The first thought that arose in the inspector’s head was "Apparently, I was confused with the father who ordered an insert for his child for study", but he immediately discarded it - he remembered how the postmaster clarified that the letter was intended specifically for Galbraith, who was staying at the "Stait of Snow Lake". True, it could turn out that in that hotel his namesake and a small child actually stayed in one of the rooms, but the inspector decided not to develop this topic and began to study the second item, which was in the envelope. Unfolding the sheet of paper folded in four, Galbraith immediately noticed that the text was typed on a typewriter. Well,
of course, he thought, this is a great way to put it in a deadlock - If the letter had been written by hand, it would not be difficult to guess who its author was!

Having dealt with the first impression, the inspector examined this item a little more closely. Both sides of the white sheet of paper were occupied by a long epistle printed in very small print. The black ink had peeled off in many places, making the letters look washed out and the text not very legible, but Galbraith, whose job it was to decipher obscure handwritten messages, did not see anything difficult in understanding the typewritten document.

"For A Middle-aged Naive" was at the very beginning of the letter. For some reason, the inspector immediately guessed that it was addressed specifically to him, and, slightly offended by the definition of "naive", began reading.

"I won't call Thou by name, because it's obvious that missive are intended only for Thou", this is how this epistle began.

- Huh, why don't you introduce yourself then? - Galbraith whispered with only his lips so that the taxi driver would not hear him.

"Thou behave like a juvenile in love, and, Thou know, watching amour sufferings from the outside is quite unpleasant. Honestly, it's annoying. I happened to observe in the old days two people who had feelings for the same person. All three were the same age, and they were connected by the fact that the three of them went to the same seminary".

- Why should I know about some love story between three schoolchildren? - Galbraith sarcastically asked the unknown author of these lines.

"The first stripling - let's call him Parthenion for short - fell in love with a demoiselle - let's call her Eudoxia - from early childhood. He watched her every step, worshipped her like a Goddess, but at the same time he was afraid to approach her, avoided her glances and was ashamed when strangers uttered her name. While the second stripling - Andronicus - became interested in demoiselle as an adult, when their studies at the seminary were coming to an end. He, unlike Parthenion, did not hesitate and, during the holidays, took advantage of the opportunity and retired with Eudoxia in her home. After this, Andronicus was expelled from seminary in disgrace, but he and Eudoxia had a child. The birth of an successor fully compensated for the fact that his father was left with an incomplete education".

- Well done, what can I say... - Galbraith remarked sarcastically.

"If Thou were unable to make the connection between this story and Your current situation, then please forgive me for not taking into account Your level of knowledge and Your intelligence quotient".

- Now this is rudeness! - the inspector barely restrained himself from screaming.

"Therefore, I will allow myself to do Thou a favour, since I consider Thou an experienced person who can solve the challenge if given a few clues".

- What, first you insulted and then flattered? - Galbraith was increasingly affected by this letter.

"The main reason why I made concessions is that I am sick of watching a grown men of the criminal profession tremble over the case assigned to him, just as Parthenion was afraid to approach Eudoxia. Thou, like that stripling, lose Your footing when Thou mention the victim, because of which instead investigation Thou are actually doing is treading water".

- Interesting association, - thought the inspector, gradually calming down.

"But all Thou need is to boldly face danger, not be afraid to make sudden movements and not take into account difficulties, like the second stripling. In this state of affairs, Thou, like Andronicus, would get what Thou want - in his case it was the successor, in Yours a sense of accomplishment. Alas, unfortunately, Thou are unlikely to be able to do this - a person’s character cannot be changed by moralizing advice - all that will change is the amount of his knowledge, but otherwise he will remain the same".

- Of course, people never change, - Galbraith recalled the famous saying.

"So I'll end by reminding Thou of what Thou should have learned all this time - In the beginning was the Number. Twice - the Four and the Five. From now on, I'll just hope that Thou can solve the puzzle, which can cope with even those people, who have serious problems with arithmetic and logic".

On this somewhat contemptuous and arrogant note the letter has come to an end. Galbraith crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it out the side window of the car - with his peripheral vision he managed to notice how a gust of breeze picked up the letter and carried it somewhere into the dark expanses of the night highway. Leaning back in his seat, the inspector thought for a split second that this was not the act of a policeman who was obliged to keep material evidence, but of an excited romanticist. In any case, Galbraith didn’t care much about this, nor did he care about the fact that when he lowered the window, an unusually cold wind blew into the car.

The inspector began to analyze who could be the author of this ambiguous and unclear message. It would be difficult to identify the person for sure from the typewritten text, so the inspector had to rely on the contents of the letter. It was clear as day that the creator of the lines who did not introduce himself was aware of who Galbraith was. In addition, this mysterious person somehow incomprehensibly knew how the inspector felt about his investigation - the phrase regarding the reaction to the victim's name clearly hinted at this. Galbraith immediately rejected the version with doctor Baselard - because he was tired of throwing wood into the fire of his paranoia. Instead, he hypothesized that the letter could have been written by none other than mister chief inspector Schaeymoure. There was always some kind of secrecy in his person, and this was not limited to his manner of speaking in riddles - take, for example, his unexpected visit to Galbraith’s apartment...

The inspector remembered one of the last lines that ended the letter - "...In the beginning was the Number. Twice - the Four and the Five". Reference to Gospel of John, as Galbraith thought, it was deliberately inserted by the author of these lines, so that against their background, the inherently modest numbers would look pretentious and intriguing.

- Well, four and five, - he repeated. - Wonder what that's about.

Trying to calm down and collect his thoughts, Galbraith lowered his hands to his knees and only now discovered that all this time the same cardboard that was in the envelope along with the ill-fated letter had been lying on them. The inspector grabbed it and brought it to his eyes. He's already seen what's on it were listed the letters of the English alphabet in two rows, under the huge red letters of which there were numbers in small print - index numbers. Then, as soon as he opened the envelope, it seemed to him like a funny mistake by the postman, but after reading the letter, this modest accessory of a preschooler acquired a strange and meaningful significance in the inspector’s eyes.

Galbraith was so engrossed in his little investigation that he didn’t even notice that at that time the radio was playing in the cabin, which the driver turned on so as not to drive in dead silence with a taciturn passenger. Only when Galbraith began to look at the children's alphabet did the words that were heard from the speakers reach his ears:

- Hello! Now you are listening "Dom-I-Double" broadcasting service, announcer О'Girard is with you, - the voice of a mature man spoke with a Swiss accent.

The inspector could not help but notice that this O'Girard spoke with such glee, as if this announcer had just returned from some kind of feast and had not yet completely sobered up. But most likely, it was simply difficult for him to hide the joy that overwhelmed him, which was felt in his every word. But why? Galbraith, who involuntarily became curious about this, listened to the radio more closely

- It's no secret that yesterday, the twenty-sixth of December one thousand nine hundred and ninety-one, Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union adopted A Declaration on The Demise of Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Our radio station believes this is A Day of The Great Triumph for all...

The announcer's voice was drowned in the noise of applause and joyful screams of the crowd - it was obvious that salute had started in the studio. Galbraith even thought he heard the pop of a cork and the hiss of foam - apparently, someone opened a bottle of champagne right next to the microphone. But this festival of life was put to an end by the taxi driver, who on this cheerful note reached out to the radioreceiver.

- Smile nice, mister Capitalist.... - he said, addressing someone unknown.

The taxi driver didn’t finish his sentence - he simply switched the radio channel and took the wheel. The sounds of jazz were heard inside the car. However, the inspector, who managed to hear the news, was involuntarily stunned. The point was not that he was worried about the fate of some state - Galbraith was amazed that, according to the announcer, today was the twenty-seventh of December.

- It's only mid-October now.... - the policeman puzzled muttered to himself.

He couldn’t understand what had happened - is that really time flown faster for no apparent reason and ended up jumping ahead two months at once?

- This is clearly someone else's mistake... - the rational inspector repeated to himself.

He had two assumptions about this. The first was that it was possible that announcer O'Girard had misspoke when he announced the date. Galbraith rejected this idea immediately - he rightly believed that it was unlikely that the radio would so blatantly misinform its listeners, passing off black as white.

The second hypothesis that the inspector put forward was that it was a trick of the taxi driver. If this were really the case, then it would be outright paranoia - why would some random driver suddenly gather a bunch of people in one room, give them pieces of paper with a script and, having recorded it on some audio cassette, put it in the tape recorder of his car and play it at the right moment to the right passenger? Against this assumption was the fact that Galbraith clearly saw that the driver had switched the radio, and not pressed the tape recorder button - unless it was an optical illusion. Anything, of course, could have happened, but the inspector did not consider himself the navel of the earth around which the whole world revolves. Galbraith decided not to torment himself with meaningless guesses and turned to the driver, who, after changing the radio channel, continued to drive the car in silence.

- Sorry, can you tell me what date it is today? - he asked politely and even meekly.

This simple and innocent question caused an unexpected reaction in the man - he instantly turned around and stared at his passenger. Galbraith involuntarily staggered back - it seemed to him that the taxi driver had suddenly gone crazy and was about to tear him into pieces. But the next second the driver realized what was going on, and he smiled widely.

- Ah, good sir, you look so intelligent, but... - he began.
- What do you mean? - Galbraith's fear gave way to discontent.
- I'm talking about the fact that it's not proper for a man like you to drinking into oblivion, - the man said reproachfully.
- How do you figure that? - the policeman frowned.
- How else did you manage to forget that today is December twenty-seventh? - The taxi driver winked and finally turned to the windshield.
- You have got to be kidding me... - this answer stumped Galbraith.
- Nothing of the sort, - muttered the taxi driver. - Check it out for yourself, if you do not believe me! - and he made a gesture with his left hand.

The inspector, who had already lost his temper, obediently followed the man’s instructions and looked out the side window - they were driving along a straight road, on both sides of which stretched snow-covered fields, behind which rare buildings were barely visible. The only source of light was the headlights of the car, which illuminated the road ahead, and in their light it was clearly visible how rare snowflakes were swirling in the air and slowly falling onto the snow-covered asphalt. Galbraith was confused and grabbed his head with both hands. The view of nature outside the car window silently made him understand that there was only one way to explain what was happening - a miracle happened, and the policeman inexplicably moved in time.

In this regard, he suddenly remembered that in childhood he had come across a book - a collection of fantastic stories. There were a lot of interesting things there, but he remembered one story for a long time. As far as Galbraith could remember now, it was about students who found a broken grandfather clock in the house of an elderly relative. Taking them with them, they showed them to the professor and he decided to have them. His actions caused the trinity of them to travel back in time to the Eighty Years' War. Over the years, the inspector forgot the author of the story, its title and almost all the details, but the fact that in this work, from the nineteenth century, which was more or less familiar to his perception, the action was suddenly transferred to the sixteenth, was imprinted on his memory.

Galbraith raised his eyes to the ceiling, all the impressions he had experienced that day made him dizzy. Common sense told him that fantastic is fiction, but now he was in reality! If someone outside tried to briefly describe what had just happened to him, the result would be complete nonsense - the inspector got into a taxi in the fall, and winter immediately set in outside. How the most ordinary and banal passenger car was able to travel forward two months in time? The inspector was brought out of this frantic whirlpool of thoughts by a familiar tenor. Galbraith turned away from the window and listened - the voice sang to the accompaniment of jazz, which was heard from the radio. The passenger could not resist touching the driver on the shoulder.

- Listen, these are not... - and inspector uttered two words that sounded like the name of a French fashion magazine.
- Yes, that's them, - the driver nodded affirmatively, who also seemed pleased to listen to this song.
- Did they really release a new album this year? - Galbraith was surprised.

He remembered that these guys were so busy touring that they simply did not have time to get together in the studio and please their loyal listeners with another full-length masterpiece.

- What the album? - said the driver. - Only one track.
- Hmm... - the policeman scratched his chin.
- But this is not just a ordinary composition, - the driver began to clarify, - It's a song for the new movie by Ernst Wilhelm Wenders!

Galbraith had never heard of this man before. Apparently, he was simply not particularly interested in what was happening in the world of cinema recently.

- Okay, I was excited to learn about this, - Galbraith thanked him and leaned back in his seat.

He began to listen to the song streaming from the radio speaker. The beautiful voice of the vocalist had an alluring and hypnotic power, which was ideally combined with an accompaniment very similar to jazz - which was quite uncharacteristic for these guys who mostly played synthesizers. The lyrics involuntarily sunk into Galbraith’s soul - as he could understand, the lyrical hero of this song felt like a stranger in the real world, and so he went to the afterlife, which he considers his true home. In the refrain he appealed to his parents, hoping for a suitable reception from them. It seemed to the inspector that this composition was clearly intended for those who were disappointed in life.

Analyzing the content of a song that came across a random radio channel, Galbraith noticed its similarity to a Missa pro defunctis. And I couldn’t help but wonder, for whom does this requiem sound? According to Jordan Thurlow - a young man who had no place in this life? Maybe for Delia Yonce - a little girl who did not have time to know this world? Or in the end for himself, inspector Galbraith, who has recently been forced to try to understand the meaning of life?

- Delia... - he whispered.

When the name of this girl came to his mind, the inspector was suddenly overcome with determination. He remembered the cardboard with the alphabet and, taking it in his hands, began to study it again. The letters themselves were printed in large font, and their serial numbers in smaller.

- How was it, four and five... - the inspector recalled the last lines of the letter.

On the cardboard, these numbers corresponded to the letters "D" and "E", and they - what a coincidence - came one after the other.

- This is quite naturally, - Galbraith grinned into his moustache.

He remembered that, according to the radio, it was now December - the twelfth month. He lowered his eyes again - on the cardboard this number corresponds to the letter "L".

- Well... - he became interested in solving this logical puzzle.

The ninth letter from the beginning was "I". Galbraith thought that it could carry the answer in itself - after all, in the Roman number system this letter corresponded to the number One (1). And this, by the way, was also helpful for the decision, because "A", the very first letter of the English alphabet, fit this number.

- Okay, this is D-E-L-I-A. Ideal.. - burst out from Galbraith.

The inspector tried this phrase on his tongue, and accidentally discovered that both of his last words - "delia" and "ideal" - consisted of the same letters, only arranged in a different sequence. "One is any better than the other", he breathed. Now Galbraith had no doubt that the mysterious author of the letter had this girl in mind. But what was the point of this? An extra reminder for the inspector? An unknown author called for Galbraith to restore justice in the name of the pharmaceutist's daughter? For some reason, the policeman immediately remembered his dead friend Pharqraut, who just liked to find unusual clues in things in which other people would not have noticed anything. The dead do not write letters, but the logic of his close friend and the author of the message, who wished to remain anonymous, was very similar...

- It is possible that the essence should be sought not in morphemic, but in arithmetic, - the inspector said quietly.

A hunch told him that if he added up the numbers, the riddle would be solved on its own. He was afraid of making a mistake in his calculations, so he turned to a taxi driver.

- Sorry, do you have a calculator? - he said meekly.
- Do you want to calculate how much money will be transferred to you in a month? - The driver said cheerfully and opened the glove compartment.
- Something like that, - Galbraith decided to maintain a carefree tone of conversation.
- If it's not a secret, what will you spend it on? - asked the driver, rummaging through things.
- For the holidays, of course, - the inspector answered evasively

The driver, meanwhile, continued to look for what the passenger asked him for. Finally, he pulled out a small electronic device from the very depths.

- Did you ask? Hold it, - and he gave the policeman a Casio fx-7000G.

The inspector turned the silver calculator in his hands. The well-worn device had a small green screen and five rows of tiny buttons.

- If only you knew how much money I spent on it at one time... - the driver said with unexpected warmth, and for the first time notes of sadness were heard in his voice.

"There was no need to rush to buy the product when it was just thrown onto the market", Galbraith thought, focusing on the device. Means, D-E-L-I-A. The inspector checked the cardboard - it turned out that in numbers this word was transformed into 04-05-12-09-01. Galbraith began to poke at the small buttons of the calculator.

- Which operation should I perform first... - he asked himself, referring to operations of a mathematical rather than criminal nature.

He decided to subtract the numbers. The matte green display of the Casio fx-7000G displayed "-23". A negative number meant nothing to him. Then he decided to add them. He got the number "31". "Already makes sense", the inspector thought. For example, he himself was just thirty-one years old...

- What if I added up both of these answers? - Galbraith decided.

He typed "-23+31" on the calculator. The result is the number "8".

- Eight... Delia was eight years old when Jo met her... - the policeman muttered as if in a trance.

Yes, Galbraith thought, one German scientist said the truth that Mathematics is The Queen of The Sciences...

- Take it back, - he handed the calculator to its owner.
- What, did you find out how much you will spend on the holidays? - the driver asked in a joking tone, putting the electronic device in the glove compartment.
- Well, I'm a huge strapped for cash, - Galbraith smiled in response.
- Why so? - there was surprise in the driver’s voice.
- I don’t really want to work, - the inspector lowered his gaze in embarrassment.
- All right, I get it, you are lost the grip... - the driver nodded understandingly and returned to the controls.

And Galbraith, who was somewhat tired from solving mathematical riddles, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Already without a calculator in his hands, he simply turned over the number thirty one (31) for fun. The result involuntarily made him grin - because the number thirteen (13), which he came up with, was famous for generating an unhealthy excitement around itself. It’s funny, Galbraith thought, when overly impressionable people are afraid of Baker’s dozen, not least because that at one time some quacks gave birth to a cult, which in fact was needed only to instill fear in the souls of uneducated people. And, as the inspector noted, this mission to obscurantion the people was successful - this extremely ridiculous cult in its essence was not only not forgotten over time, but on the contrary, it penetrated into all spheres of people’s lives and became as integral a part of culture as, for example, the hippie subculture.

Galbraith marvelled at how the people could allow their heads to be filled with such nonsense, and thought that if these quacks heard about the incident with poor Delia Yonce, then they would immediately call her a witch, hang all the mortal sins on her - in general, they would turn the story about a rare medical case into some kind of idiotic mystical fairy tale, which would only cause bewilderment to any even more or less educated person.

- I can think of no worse deed than demonization of the child, - Galbraith sighed sadly

Lost in lamentable reflections, the inspector did not notice how the car stopped moving.

- Good sir, we are already there! - the driver said cheerfully.

Galbraith turned away from his mirthless thoughts and looked out the window. Outside was a snow-covered field that stretched to the horizon. Here and there sparse trees stuck out between the snowdrifts.

- Are we sure we've arrived at the right address? - the policeman asked incredulously.
- Do you think I decided to fool you? - the taxi driver said with offense.

The inspector decided not to get into an altercation with him and opened the door. There was no bitter blizzard, but rare snowflakes continued to hover in the air. It would be crazy to go out in such light clothes, but Galbraith didn't care anymore. Getting out of the car, he took two steps forward and breathed in the fresh air. A gust of cold wind blew through his hair.

- I said, take me to the institute! - he shouted, looking around.
- And what's this? A barn?! - answered the taxi driver from the window.

The car started moving and sped off into the distance. Shivering from the cold, the inspector took his eyes off the road and turned on his heel. He expected to see a typical building of an ordinary institute - a huge four-story structure with long rows of windows, with a colonnade at the main facade and with mysterious Latin inscriptions above the main entrance. But instead he saw a modest one-story house. Although, to be honest, calling it "house" would be an exaggeration. The structure looked much more like a car garage, built from cinder blocks finished with dark blue plaster.

Galbraith looked a little more closely. The building had the shape of a parallelepiped, with four windows along the long sides. At the end there was a double wooden door with small windows made of thick glass. This, in fact, was where all the architectural delights ended - no signs, inscriptions or plaques. It looked like it really was an ordinary, unremarkable garage. But the inspector decided not to rush to conclusions and came close to the entrance. As soon as he pulled the copper handle, a light came on behind the glass of the doors. Then something tinkled behind them and there was a quiet click. Galbraith immediately let go of the handle and backed away slightly - the next moment the door slowly opened.

A young man stood on the threshold in a white coat thrown over a black shirt. The policeman looked up - the stranger had a yellowish skin tone, small thin lips and combed back black hair. The Asian man looked at the inspector, and polite curiosity was visible in his narrow, slanted eyes. At the first moment, Galbraith even had the thought that he had already seen this face somewhere - maybe in a movie - but he immediately pushed this thought away.

- Welcome, - The Asian said respectfully and bowed his head slightly.

The inspector couldn't help but notice that the interlocutor had problems pronouncing the letter "L" - instead he got an "R", which is why his "welcome" sounded almost like "verukome".

- I am grad that you honoured our humbre institute with your visit, - the stranger in the coat said obsequiously with a terrible accent. - Come in, they are waiting for you.

The solemnity that was felt in the words of this Asian only emphasized the atmosphere of absurdity that surrounded Galbraith at that moment. Having crossed the threshold, the inspector followed his guide, not having the slightest idea where he was leading him. They walked through a narrow, short corridor and found themselves in a dressing room-like room, the walls of which were painted gray. Galbraith immediately caught the eye of the staircase leading down, located directly opposite the entrance to the room. To her right was the elevator door, next to which stood a metal clothes hanger on which hung several white coats - exactly the same as the one the Asian man who met him was wearing.

Behind these clothes, Galbraith did not immediately notice a man standing at a distance in the same suit. Taking a closer look, the inspector recognized him as the same middle-aged guest who had visited him in his room at the Stait of Snow Lake hotel in the morning.

- Wow, here you are! - there was a cheerful shout.

The man waved his hand joyfully, and the policeman saw his face break into a smile for a moment - it seemed as if he saw an old friend whom he had not seen for many years. After a second, the smile disappeared from his face and the man turned his gaze to the Asian man standing next to the inspector and winked at him. He nodded in response and headed towards the stairs. Galbraith wanted to follow, but the silver-haired man stopped him.

- Hold your horses, the respected, hold your horses, - he said ingratiatingly, clapping his hands.
- How can I be useful in this place? - Galbraith asked, looking with interest at the specialist.
- I would like to say a few words to you, - the interlocutor seemed to have not heard him. - I was already afraid that you wouldn't come.
- Why? - the inspector didn't understand what silver-haired was talking about.
- Two months and eight days have passed since I handed you the business card, - the man answered, raising his finger up.

Galbraith was a little surprised by the accuracy with which his interlocutor counted the time. Apparently, he never complained about his memory. Besides, people here were really looking forward to the inspector's visit. The more the policeman thought about it, the more a vague feeling of anxiety came over him. To drive him away, Galbraith decided to focus on the upcoming conversation.

- Yes, I wasn't in much of a hurry, - he answered evasively.

Not telling this silver-haired man that he actually moved in time by getting into some taxi - not only did it sound stupid, but it could also suggest that the inspector was not all right in the head.

- Good, - The specialist was satisfied with this answer. - Put in on.

With these words, he took one of the white coats from the hanger and handed it to Galbraith.

- What is this for? - asked the inspector, incredulously turning this item of clothing in his hands.
- For hygienic reasons, - the silver-haired man answered.
- Huh, you're afraid I'll bring germs into your barn? - Galbraith grinned, throwing this coat over his shoulders.

The specialist seemed to be offended by such words from the guest. He twitched with his whole body and threw a look of reproach at Galbraith.

- I understand that you are not very impressed by the facade of our institute, but do not rush to conclusions! - he spoke hastily.
- Where exactly is the institute itself? - Galbraith asked curiously.
- Below, - the specialist said solemnly.

He pointed with his hand towards the stairs, on the upper steps of which stood an Asian man leaning against the wall. He seemed to be just waiting for this sign. He walked away from the wall and, as if about to bow, slightly bent his knees, but the next moment he straightened up and froze in place.

- Makoto-san berieves that the croser a person is to the core of the Earth, the more his mind is open to universar wisdom, - at these words, a crazy light flashed in the Asian's eyes.
- What nonsense did he say? - Galbraith asked the silver-haired man.
- Forgive generously young mister Manabu for idolizing his teacher too much, - the specialist said with embarrassment
- I don't care about the relationship between a student and his teacher, - Galbraith remarked somewhat rudely. - Explain in a few words what is happening here?
- In the heat of his feelings, Manabu lost sight of the fact, - the silver-haired man began. - That Montesi decided to hide his developments from prying eyes.
- Montesi? Makoto? Who are all these people? - the inspector was already beginning to be annoyed by this old man and his Asian friend.
- While we are on our way down, you and I will have enough time to bring you up to date, - the specialist did not seem to notice the inspector's dissatisfaction.

After these words, the specialist approached the stairs, and his Asian companion - now it turned out that he was Japanese - followed him. Galbraith silently looked after them and decided to go to the elevator.

- No-no-no, - the silver-haired man shouted to him. - Follow us!
- Why don't we just take the elevator? - Galbraith asked, taking his hand away from the call button.
- The fact is that the institute is located at such a great depth, - the specialist began in the tone of an art critic in the museum, - That during an elevator ride your brain runs the risk of not being able to cope with the rapid change in pressure.
- So what? - the inspector was not impressed by this abstruse excuse.
- And in this case, you, my respected and impatient friend, will just lose consciousness right in the cabin, - the silver-haired man said with obvious mockery.
- Are you threatening me? - the policeman involuntarily became wary.
- Threat is the weapon of cowards, - pouting with importance, the Japanese intervened in the conversation. - Makoto-san arways said that a person is obriged...
- I have no obligations to you two, - Galbraith interrupted him.

The inspector walked away from the elevator and stood next to his interlocutors. He had a view of a spiral staircase going deep into a round concrete shaft. The steps were illuminated by rare yellow diodes hanging on an aluminum wire stretched over the staircase railing. The end of this steel spiral was lost in the darkness, and not a single sound came from there. At the sight of this descent, a chill ran down the policeman's spine - in his entire adult life he had never seen such a great depth. Galbraith felt his hands involuntarily shaking, and with difficulty he restrained himself from succumbing to the impulse of fear and rushing to the exit from this place.

He looked at the gray-haired man - he did not seem to experience any discomfort, calmly looking forward. Then the inspector turned to the Japanese - he looked at Galbraith with curiosity, and his eyes seemed to say "Are you scared? This is a lesson for you not to be rude to scientists!".

- Well, let's go? - the specialist said in a cheerful tone.

With these words, he grabbed the iron railing with one hand and began to leisurely descend the stairs. The Japanese followed him. Galbraith was in no hurry to follow them and leaned his elbows on the railing.

- Hey, wait a second, - he said quietly after them.

The silver-haired man did not seem to hear him and continued to walk, and only his yellow-faced companion did a favour for the guest and turned his head slightly back, looking strangely sideways at Galbraith.

- Make me a promise that at the end of this excursion I will return back safe and sound, okay? - the inspector asked with unexpected gentleness.
- Don't worry, - came the specialist's voice. - You are our guest, and therefore we have no right to wish you harm in any case.

The Japanese didn't say a word, he just beckoned the inspector with his finger and, turning away from him, continued on his way. Galbraith, who was saddened by these words, shrugged his shoulders and obediently followed them both. There was a slightly musty underground smell hanging in the air of the descent shaft - something between the smell of mustiness and fug. It is curious that the lower they descended, the warmer the air became.

- Please don't stomp! - the gray-haired man suddenly shouted.

The inspector only now realized that all this time his companions had been walking silently along the metal steps, while he, in his loafers, was actually making a very distinct stomp. Galbraith looked at the heels of the Japanese man walking in front of him and could not help but smile - on the young man's bare feet there were rubber flip-flops, very similar to those worn by tourists sunbathing on the beach. This was so dissonant with the scientist's white coat that the inspector could not help but comment on it out loud.

- Amusing dress code you have here, - he said, trying to slow down his pace.
- Are you talking about slippers? - asked the silver-haired man, continuing to go down. - We would have given them to you too, but we thought you would start complaining.
- But why flip-flops? - Galbraith asked over the head of the silent Japanese.
- The legs breathe, also the stomping does not interfere with the conversation, - the specialist answered calmly.

Galbraith finally mastered the fear that gripped him a couple of minutes ago. Now he found it funny, to such an extent that he was almost sure that all this was happening in some kind of comedy farce.

- And what do you want to tell me, mister... - the inspector waited for the gray-haired man to identify himself.
- Just call me the specialist, - answered the silver-haired man.
- What kind of conspiracy is this? - the inspector sensed a catch.
- Our scientific people have no names, - the specialist said mysteriously.
- Onry when an individuar manages to achieve success does he have every right to carr himserf, - suddenly spoke up a Japanese man, who had previously keep quiet.
- Hmm... - Galbraith frowned. - Wait, what about Manabu? - he remembered the name of the Asian.
- Mister Manabu has the reputation of being his teacher's first assistant, - answered the specialist. - He is worthy to be addressed by name.
- Does that mean you are not worthy? - the policeman marvelled at this injustice.
- I'm just a executant that no one will ever mention, - the silver-haired man said sadly. - Like a musician in an orchestra, listeners first talk about the composer, then about the conductor, and no one cares about who produces the sounds of music themselves.

There was a grain of truth in the specialist's words. But this still seemed to Galbraith an insufficient excuse for the fact that the man who last morning - but in fact two months ago - paid a surprise visit to the inspector, continues to hide his name from the policeman.

- How long do we have to go? - Galbraith asked the specialist.
- It's better not to ask this question, - he answered evasively.

This means, the inspector thought, the institute is indeed located quite deep underground. Strange, very strange - why hide so carefully from human eyes what relates to computer technology?

- Would you mind telling me then who this Montesi you mentioned is? - the inspector asked the question again.
- Pourquoi pas? - exclaimed the silver-haired man in French. - This is exactly what we have prepared for beginners.
- Curious. And how many people have you directed to the right path? - the policeman said sarcastically.
- So far, not a singre one, you are the first to receive such an honour, - the Japanese raised his voice again.

Walking behind his companions, Galbraith quickly realized why he was the first guest of this institute - few people would want to go deep underground, inhaling the stale air and trying not to fall head over heels from the spiral staircase. The inspector had the feeling that he was descending into the Mariana Trench or, God forbid, to where the took place the actions of "Divine Comedy" by Durante di Alighiero degli Alighieri...

- Montesi was an engineer-constructor, - meanwhile the specialist began. - Who, from his school days, cherished the idea of ​​creating an eternal supercomputer.
- What-what? - Galbraith asked, not believing his ears.
- Eternal in that sense, - as if making a footnote, the silver-haired man said. - That the integrated circuits that form the basis of the machine do not wear out over time.
- Of course, subject to operating conditions, - the Japanese inserted moralizingly.
- Mister Manabu is right, a supercomputer will not last a day if left in the rain, but who would come up with the idea of such an act of vandalism? - the specialist agreed with the interlocutor.
- Well, yes... - Galbraith said quietly.
- All in all, - the silver-haired man continued the story, - Montesi, as a student, moved from his native Chile to England, and in its capital he quickly found people interested in this.
- Do you want to say that in London there were some naive technology manufacturers who took the word of some South American student and fulfilled his whims? - the inspector asked incredulously.
- It is incredible but it is a fact, - the specialist said briefly.
- Why, pray tell, did this Montesi need to dig this shaft? - Galbraith still could not take his interlocutor's words at face value.
- Cold War, - the specialist answered just as tersely. - He did not want the intelligence services to interfere with his work.

Well, yes, the policeman thought, it's so obvious... But still, how did it happen that a project of such a scale remained unknown to the masses? For Galbraith, this was no less a mystery than the fact that he himself had somehow traveled back in time.

- Adrian Montesi with his charges, - continued the silver-haired. - In a couple of years created a prototype of a supercomputer. The development was carried out directly underground - workshops were erected there that assembled microcircuits, memory units and other components.
- It sounds like a fragment from some fantastic story, - Galbraith couldn't resist.
- The fierd of science in which we work wirr arways seem rike science fiction to the common man, - the Japanese added.
- Therefore, I will try not to use terms that will not be clear to you in any case, - the specialist noted.
- Thanks for your kind words, - the inspector replied sarcastically.
- The very first program that was recorded in the computer's memory, - said the gray-haired man. - It was extremely primitive, there was no question of it simulating our world.
- And now what, is he already simulating? - their guest couldn't help but grin.
- Don't go getting too far ahead! - the specialist said sternly.

Galbraith interpreted this remark as a positive answer to his rhetorical question. Curious and curious, he thought.

- Adrian Montesi eventually achieved his goal, and the computer could function forever and without stopping, - the silver-haired man said solemnly.
- And then he took his secret to the grave? - Galbraith joked.
- Don't blaspheme, Montesi is alive! - the specialist exclaimed in fear.
- Okay, I was joking, - the inspector reassured the interlocutor.
- The inventor was so excited about his success, - continued the silver-haired man. - That at the end of the test run of the computer, he immediately rushed to The Intellectual Property Office of the United Kingdom and registered the trademark "Mon-Tec", which was short for "Montesi Technologies".
- Somehow this act does not fit with the way he previously hid his developments from the intelligence services - Galbraith noticed the discrepancy.
- Eidorian Monteshi was a very passionate gaijin, - the Japanese made an excuse. - No one courd understand what was going on in his head.
- Why do you both talk about him in the past tense? - their guest could not help but ask.
- You should know it, - the specialist said. - When Montesi registered the trademark, he spoke at an international congress. The only one who was interested in the Chilean's invention was professor Makoto Shuragami.

Galbraith could not help but think that apparently all the other scientists who were at that congress considered this South American engineer crazy and did not believe his story about an eternal supercomputer. And who would believe...

- Makoto-san buirt a theory, - the Japanese began enthusiastically. - That computer programming is something rike human training, when the resurt shourd not be an automatic machine that executes the program embedded in it, but an artificiar interrigence that courd think and think on its own, without operator intervention.
- Well, is a strong word, - Galbraith involuntarily praised the young interlocutor.
- Aras, in his homerand Makoto-san had a bad reputation, scientists despised him and carred his thoughts as empty chatter, - continued the Asian with a terrible accent.
- Huh, a typical story about an unrecognized genius, - muttered the policeman.
- And therefore, when the professor rearned about the creation of Eidorian Monteshi, he fert that with this gaijin he wourd be abre to rearize his dream of creating an artificiar worrd, - having said this, the Japanese began to breathe heavily as if in divine awe.

There was something strange in this union of a Chilean engineer and a Japanese programmer... But such is the world, two souls found each other, and it was pointlessly for Galbraith to argue with this.

- Makoto showed Montesi a prototype of his program, which, based on the information entered into it, produced quite meaningful sentences in response, - the specialist took over the narrator's initiative.
- It's rike when a baby repeats an adurt's actions, - his Asian companion explained.
- Do you want to say that some unknown Japanese professor developed the von Neumann model and achieved success in it? - asked Galbraith.
- Unknown is a relative concept, - the silver-haired man noticed. - Do you know who Thomas Kite Sharpless is?
- How should I know? - the policeman did not understand the hint.
- If you were interested in computers, you would know that this is the chief programmer of Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer, - the specialist said in the tone of a mentor.
- All right, you've got it, - Galbraith surrendered.

There was silence for a couple of minutes. All three - the inspector, the gray-haired man and the Japanese - continued to descend down the poorly lit spiral staircase, and it seemed that there was no end to this descent. Galbraith was surprised to note that during all this time he was never out of breath - apparently, the spiral movement put virtually no strain on his legs.

- Makoto's program delighted Montesi so much, - after three minutes the silver-haired man continued. - That he, without thinking twice, appointed a Japanese professor to the post of major programmer of his supercomputer.
- Makoto-san took with him a staff of his emproyees, among whom was your humbre servant Manabu, - the Japanese said with dignity.
- Within two months, - the specialist spoke. - A team of Japanese programmers worked hard and eventually demonstrated their work to Montesi.
- Eidorian Monteshi was so amazed by my teacher's unprecedented resurts, - his Asian companion immediately intervened. - That he bowed to his genius and handed over the entire project to him.
- But where did he go? - Galbraith asked a question.
- Montesi left the "Mon-Tec", - the specialist said. - But before leaving, he asked the professor for a favor.
- What was it? - the inspector did not let up.
- He had two requests, - continued the silver-haired man. - So that they completely forget about it and at the same time change the brand.
- And what were the successes? - the policeman was surprised by these demands of the Chilean.
- "Mon-Tec" has been re-registered under the new name, "Makoto Computerization Institute", - the gray-haired man said a word already familiar to Galbraith.
- But no one courd forget about Eidorian Monteshi himserf, - the Japanese inserted the word.

Well, of course, Galbraith thought, after all, the fact that this man created technology that can work forever is much more significant than some kind of program.

- Did he really leave of his own free will? - he became suspicious.
- Makoto-san personarry begged Eidorian Monteshi-kun not to abandon his brainchird, but the gaijin was adamant, - as if making excuses, the Asian said
- Okay, so what happened next? - the inspector ignored this expatiation.
- When the staff of the institute was headed by Makoto Shuragami, - the specialist started talking again. - All participants began working on the creation of "Makoto's Chest", that's what the professor himself called his creation.
- And what did the programmers put in this chest? - Galbraith asked ironically.
- All kinds of information began to be entered into the supercomputer memory blocks, - the silver-haired man began to list. - Starting from sciences such as algebra or philosophy and ending with such small things as prices for tickets to Africa or a top list of the best perfumes for young girls.
- I've never heard so much codswallop, - said the inspector. - Why fill a supercomputer with all sorts of nonsense?
- Makoto-san wanted, - the Japanese started. - For a computer to have so much information about our worrd, to buird a his virtuar copy based on it.

Galbraith thought that this idea is like the Greek myth of Sisyphus, after all, the world that surrounds people consists of so many little things that collecting this information alone should take decades. But ways of scientists are inscrutable... The inspector even admitted that Professor Makoto apparently had some health problems that could not allow him to conceive an heir, and so the professor decided to create a electronic child from relays and lines of code. At the moment when this thought occurred to Galbraith, suddenly a bright light hit his eyes. The policeman immediately stopped and involuntarily shielded himself from the light.

- Well, here is our institute, - he heard the solemn voice of the silver-haired man.

The inspector's ears heard distant shouts and someone's cheerful negotiations, but he could not make out the words - people were speaking in a language he did not understand. After a few minutes, his eyes, accustomed to the darkness, adapted to the white light of the fluorescent lamps hanging on the ceiling and gradually Galbraith began to distinguish the interior surrounding him.

He and his two companions were now standing in the middle of a long corridor with gleaming metal walls, stretching into the distance and getting lost around a bend. People passed by the three of them, who in the eyes of the policeman were like two peas in a pod, for they were all wearing white coats thrown over their casual clothes. Passers-by glanced at him, but did not stop and moved on. Suddenly Galbraith noticed how one of them slowed down slightly and turned to his helpmeet:

- Manabu-kun no tonari ni tatte iru kono baka wa daredesu ka? - this onlooker said in Japanese.
- Kore ga watashitachi no gesutoda to omoimasu, - his fellow answered.

The young men passed by Galbraith, who continued to stand in one place. He soon realized the reason why everyone was looking at him like that - apart from the specialist who worked here, the inspector was the only Europoid who, among the crowd of Japanese, looked like an alien from another world.

- Excuse me, what did these gentlemen say? - he turned to Manabu.

The scientist looked at the inspector.

- These two said, - Manabu began to translate. - That they are very preased to wercome a distinguished guest to our institute!

The mischievous light that burned in the Japanese's eyes made Galbraith doubt the correctness of this translation for a split second, but he did not care whether Manabu correctly conveyed to the foreigner the meaning of his colleagues' fleeting remark. Then he suddenly became interested in how such a large number of people could end up underground.

- By the way, do they live here or... - he asked.
- Only working, - the specialist said briefly.
- And how do they get here? - asked Galbraith.
- By taxi... - the silver-haired man began, but the inspector interrupted him.
- I mean how they go underground, - the policeman specified.

It would be strange, he thought, if all these scientists spent more than an hour getting to their workplace.

- By the elevator, of course, - the specialist answered.
- What, these Japanese don't lose consciousness while they're coming down here? - Galbraith recalled the phrase of his interlocutor when he dissuaded him from the elevator.
- Physicar training, - Manabu responded automatically.

"Somehow these scientists don’t look like people involved in sports", Galbraith thought, looking at his interlocutors and at the slender and subtle young men in dressing gowns passing by.

- Maybe it's just a matter of habit? - said the inspector.
- And that too, - nodded the specialist.

Suddenly two people stopped next to them. Of course, these were also Japanese, but this time they did not limit themselves to just comments in their language, but bowed to Galbraith and extended their hands to him.

- Hello, - the younger one said in fairly good English.
- Greetings, - his senior companion said in a cheerful tone.

Apparently they are brothers, the inspector thought, shaking hands first with one, then with the other.

- These are our new employees, - the specialist told him.
- I hope their names will not be a secret to me? - the policeman remarked sarcastically.
- Of course not, - the silver-haired man seemed not to understand the hint. - Get acquainted with Okamura brothers, Shinoda and Ichinose.

At these words, the older one chuckled displeasedly, and his younger brother smiled sadly, which somewhat embarrassed Galbraith.

- I'm glad that there was finally a volunteer willing to test our supercomputer, - said Ichinose.
- I hope the guest will appreciate the fruits of our labours, - Shinoda chimed in to his brother.

The inspector sighed - he was not satisfied with the fact that these guys talked about him as if for them he was not a person, but some kind of guinea pig. It was not the words themselves - the false wall of feelings - but the intonations of these two. Galbraith prepared for the worst.

- What do you call this project among yourselves? - he asked the brothers.

He asked the question not so much out of curiosity, but in order to observe the reaction of these two and assess whether irritation from the excessive importunity of the guest would appear on their faces.

- We call it D.O.O.R, - Shinoda replied.
- Can you tell me how this is deciphered? - the inspector did not let up.

From the way the Japanese minted the letters, Galbraith guessed that this was an abbreviation. The older brother frowned and, tilting his head to the side, thought for several seconds, as if deciding whether to answer the policeman’s question or not. Then his face brightened.

- D.O.O.R. is Digital Oriented Objective Replica, - he began to answer.

The eldest son of the Okamura family pulled out the vowels so much that it seemed to enhance the effect of these words, but in fact only convinced his interlocutor that Shinoda’s English was not perfect.

- Don’t listen to him, - Ichinose suddenly intervened in the conversation. - He is too pedantic and does not see the hidden meaning in the name of our project!

Shinoda gave his younger brother a stern look, but he did not notice the reproach. Galbraith couldn't help but admire Ichinose. Still, these Asian brothers were not exact copies of each other - each had their own characteristic feature, which he, a Europoid, was able to discern in each. Shinoda had a decisive fold above his upper lip, which had something masculine about him, while Ichinose, on the contrary, had a kind of childish roundness in his face, not without a peculiar beauty and charm. What they had in common was that they were both almost the same age, and that they both had dark eyes and short hair.

- And what meaning do you see in this thunderous word? - the inspector asked the younger brother.
- D.O.O.R. is The Door to The Future! - Ichinose exclaimed with sincere delight.

After that, Shinoda leaned over to his brother and began to whisper something angrily in his ear - apparently, he was reprimanding him for being shockingly inappropriate within the walls of the institute. But Galbraith was much more satisfied with Ichinose's answer - he thought it made much more sense than the cumbersome and abstruse sequence of words that the eldest Okamura brother insisted on. Then the silver-haired man suddenly spoke up, having previously quietly observed the conversation between the guest and the two new employees.

- Now excuse me, I have to go, things to do, - he said calmly.

The specialist nodded slightly to the inspector and quickly walked towards the fork in the corridors. A few steps short of the turn, he turned around and waved to Manabu, then disappeared down the left corridor. The Japanese followed the example of his foreign companion and set off after him. Galbraith looked after him for several minutes - the combination of a strict white robe and bare heels looked a little funny.

When Manabu disappeared around the bend in the corridor, the inspector again turned his gaze to the brothers and only now noticed that they were also wearing flip-flops. "Nothing can be done", he thought, "In this underground institute everything is not like normal people". He asked himself an essentially stupid question - do employees change their shoes upon arriving at work, or do they wear slippers in public? Galbraith looked at the eldest of the brothers - he was standing against the wall on which the logo was written, three huge red letters "M.C.I". Apparently it was the emblem of the institute. Shinoda moved his lips in concentration and seemed to have forgotten about the guest.

- Sorry, but what should I do now? - The inspector turned to Ichinose, who was twirling a ballpoint pen in his hands out of boredom.. - Where is your supercomputer, or whatever it's called, D.O.O.R.?

These words brought the older brother out of his trance and he, stopping moving his lips, looked at the inspector.

- We will now take you where you need to go, - the Japanese said somewhat thoughtfully.
- If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact us, - his younger brother interjected.
- In this case, - Galbraith involuntarily felt inspired. - Before you take me to the machine, could you arrange an audience for me with professor Makoto Shugarami?

The policeman put all his self-esteem into these words, because he believed that he should not allow others to push him around like a weak-willed animal. After some silence, Shinoda grinned wryly and Galbraith involuntarily felt as if he had exposed himself to ridicule with these words. But it was still better than if the inspector behaved like a weak-willed and naive idiot.

- Makoto-san left for Tokyo, - Shinoda said.
- On affairs? - Galbraith asked out of politeness.
- The professor decided to pay tribute to his favourite writer, - saying this, Ichinose raised his hands to the ceiling.
- In what sense? - the inspector was surprised by the answer of the younger brother Okamura.
- Makoto-san honoured with his visit winter residence of... - and Ichinose pronounced a name unfamiliar to Galbraith, which apparently belonged to some Japanese writer.
- Okay, that’s his business, - their guest waved, meaning professor Makoto.

It was bad luck, Galbraith thought, that fate brought him to this institute precisely at the moment when its rector was on vacation. He would have to entrust his life into the hands of these fidgety dunces, in whom the inspector had absolutely no trust. He was already beginning to regret his decision to come here, but a thought suddenly occurred to him.

- Do you happen to know doctor Baselard? - Galbraith asked both brothers.

He asked the question at random - he did not expect to receive a positive answer to it. Actually, that’s exactly what happened.

- No, this is the first time we’ve heard this name, - the Okamura brothers answered in unison. - And who is it?
- Well, he’s short, bald, gray-haired and wears glasses, - the inspector listed the doctor’s characteristics from memory.

The brothers shrugged their shoulders - none of them had seen a person with such signs. The inspector lost heart. Ichinose put his hand on his shoulder.

- Come with us, respected guest, - the Japanese said in a soothing tone.

The brothers turned at once and headed down the corridor, Galbraith trailing behind them. The three of them walked through narrow passages and countless corridors lined with metal plates that glittered under the white light of the ceiling lamps. Occasionally there were niches in the walls in which gas cylinders and batteries were located. Sometimes the walls were crossed by long pipes, from which a faint hum emanated - apparently it was a heating pipeline.

But the inspector had nothing to do with the architectural delights and technical subtleties of this institute - his thoughts were occupied with completely different problems. He walked quickly behind the Okamura brothers, trying not to lag behind them even a step, and thought that if it weren’t for these two, he would probably have gotten lost in these monotonous metal guts of tunnels, each of which seemed to have at least a thousand passages and branches.

Finally the brothers stopped in a small nook. The inspector stood behind them and watched as Ichinose winked at him and, facing the corrugated iron door, leaned on the handle with visible effort. She didn't give in. A grin crossed Galbraith's face for a second. Shinoda glanced at his younger brother with a frown.

- Move away, ototo, - Shinoda said and lightly pushed Ichinose.

He jumped away from the door in fear and, hunching his shoulders, pressed himself against the wall. The older brother immediately grabbed the handle and pulled it towards himself. The massive door swung open so sharply that Shinoda almost lost his balance and only managed to stay on his feet by grabbing the door frame. His guest grinned again, but when the Japanese turned to him, the inspector immediately fell silent and, just in case, took a step back, as if fearing that his smile could cause displeasure in his interlocutor.

For a second, Galbraith and Shinoda looked into each other's eyes, then the second turned his gaze to his younger brother, who had already come to his senses, and grinned.

- Then it’s up to you, - Shinoda said cheerfully.
- Are you talking to me? - Galbraith did not understand to whom the phrase was addressed.
- Of course, - the older brother Okamura again turned his gaze to the inspector.

There was interest in the Japanese's eyes - about the same as that of a scientist observing the behavior of a laboratory rat. "I don’t like this look", Galbraith thought, but did not argue and stepped over the threshold. Once he was inside, he heard the door behind him begin to slowly close. The policeman turned around with lightning speed and leaned on the heavy door with both hands.

- Behave yourself, baka! - Shinoda muttered displeasedly.

The inspector had to obey, and when the door slammed shut, he looked around suspiciously. It was dark - the only source of light in the room was a red light bulb that flickered dimly on the ceiling. Galbraith hesitantly took a couple of steps into the darkness, when suddenly a loud click reached his ears, and the room was illuminated by the bright light of the same fluorescent lamps that were in the corridor.

- Now, listen up, guest, - came a booming voice, followed by a hiss of static.

The policeman turned his head in the direction where the source of the sound was coming from. The voice came from a speaker hanging directly above the door.

- Go ahead, guest, and do what I tell you, - said the invisible announcer

The inspector shrugged and turned on his heel. What opened before his eyes was a room with a low ceiling, covered with the same iron plates as the rest of the interior of the underground institute. Galbraith moved forward. He saw a dashboard mounted into the wall, next to which stood what looked like a chair, which the policeman could tell was made of chromed metal. Its back curved slightly back, and the seat and armrests were upholstered in what looked like faux leather.

Galbraith involuntarily shuddered when he saw this - he immediately associated this design with the electric chair, in which executions were still carried out in some states of America. It was strange to see such a thing in an English computer institute run by the Japanese, but he was not laughing at the moment.

- So, you see The Spectator's Seat, - the distorted voice rang out again.

"Huh, a very pretty name for this structure", Galbraith thought sarcastically. He walked up to the chair and touched his finger to the upholstery. It turns out that the chair was upholstered in rubber. "So as not to accidentally give me an electric shock?" he thought.

- Get into it and press the red button, which is on your left, - the announcer’s voice gave the command.

Galbraith was in no hurry to sit in this chair. The thought occurred to him whether this was part of doctor Baselard’s plan, the essence of which was to lure the inspector underground, and then put him in the electric chair and that’s it, the unwanted person was eliminated... The policeman decided to turn to the invisible owner of this impudent voice. He didn't expect anyone to answer him or even just hear him, but it was still worth a try.

- Hey, what is your name... - Galbraith shouted, turning his head around.
- What? - a voice boomed questioningly.
- Why is this chair? - asked the inspector.
- In order to connect to the thoughts of D.O.O.R., - the announcer answered loudly.
- I don’t understand where the logic is here, - the policeman shouted.
- You sit in The Spectator’s Seat and at the press of a button a special adapter will be connected to your head, allowing you to read the dreams of a supercomputer, - the voice explained loudly.
- Why is everything so difficult? - Galbraith exclaimed almost capriciously.
- Nothing complicated, - the invisible announcer seemed to smile. - You just sit down and connect.
- Is it really true that you didn’t find a single person in your entire institute who could simply mount a screen? - asked Galbraith.
- D.O.O.R. provides information in the form of a sequence of pulses. We are actively working to ensure that a supercomputer can convert it into a continuous stream of video signal, but at this stage all tasks associated with visualization are performed by the brain of the "spectator". Much like with a book - it’s just a set of letters, but in your head they are transformed into vivid images, - after this tirade the voice died down.

Due to the static and echo of the room, it was impossible to understand who this voice actually belonged to, but when Galbraith heard this analogy from the lips of an invisible operator, the inspector immediately thought that the person sitting at the microphone was none other than a gray-haired specialist. However, the policeman did not enter into an altercation with him - what was the point if he was still locked in a room similar to a prison cell...

- Sit in the seat, - the voice rang out again.

"Well", thought Galbraith, "You pushed it enough". He straightened his jacket and settled into his chair.

- Now push the button, - the announcer continued.

"...and I will get the result", thought the inspector. Galbraith turned his head to the left and saw, right next to the armrest, a small recess in the dashboard, in the depths of which a blue light flickered. He leaned closer. Upon closer inspection, it was revealed that it was a round plastic button with a barely noticeable bulge in the middle.

- No, wait! - the policeman raised his head up.
- What questions? - a voice boomed from the speaker.
- Would you describe in general terms what I will see in these "dreams"! - Galbraith shouted as if fighting for his life.
- Okay, - the announcer muttered, as if doing him a favour. - Professor Makoto Shugarami did not intend to create a specific personality of the machine mind, he simply downloaded information into it. However, when we did the "first reading", we noticed that the supercomputer in its thoughts considers itself a young American mafioso who lives in a European town.

"Huh, this electronic brain has an unbridled imagination", thought Galbraith.

- And what is the name of this "E-Mafia" of yours? - asked the inspector
- Edwin Deforest, - the voice answered dryly.
- All right, gentlemen, I’m ready, - the policeman finally agreed.

Galbraith looked away from the shiny metal ceiling and looked again at the blue light. He hesitated a little - almost like when he first boarded his first plane. Then the fact was that he was leaving his native England in order to get to the unknown Das gelobte Land. And now - what an irony of fate! - he did return trip, in order to get into the thoughts of some electronic brains in the depths of a suspicious underground bunker.

Galbraith wiped the sweat on his forehead with his hand and, thinking tenderly about poor little Delia, resolutely extended his hand to the button...

There was a barely audible click and on the ceiling, right above Galbraith's head, a small panel opened slightly, from where a manipulator, ending in three silver claws, extended downwards. With the sound of servos, they began to slowly approach the head of the inspector, who involuntarily shivered in his chair.

- Relax, guest, - came a voice. - And close your eyes.

The policeman closed his eyes. He felt the manipulator's three fingers wrap around the back and sides of his head. Galbraith was not in pain, but the feeling was not pleasant - it seemed that his head was being squeezed in a vice, which was not far from the truth.

- Stop thinking, - said the announcer.

The inspector opened his eyes when he heard this. He wanted to ask how he should understand this request, but was horrified to discover that his tongue had stopped obeying him - apparently, some kind of paralyzing impulse had been sent through the manipulator rods. But fortunately for him, the invisible operator seemed to understand that the guest was demanding an explanation.

- This is necessary for, - the voice began to explain, - So that the flow of your thoughts does not interrupt the flow of information of electronic consciousness, because otherwise you risk not seeing anything. And yes, - the announcer remarked sternly. - Close your eyes, I asked you.

Galbraith thought that this was similar to how cinema advertisements encourage viewers not to wonder, but to simply watch what is shown on the screens. He closed his eyes as tightly as possible, simultaneously noticing that the room was drowned in darkness.

***

An hour passed, and the room was filled with fluorescent light again. The inspector felt someone's hands begin to remove the metal claws of the manipulator from his head. He hardly opened his eyes - both Okamura brothers were standing next to him. Shinoda freed Galbraith's head from the embrace of the car, then nodded to Ichinose and they helped the inspector get out of his chair.

- Tired? - Shinoda politely asked the guest.
- I'm fine, - he wheezed. - Thanks for taking care of me.

The policeman's legs could hardly support him - his whole body was so exhausted, as if he had run a cross-country race for several miles. If it weren't for these two Japanese, Galbraith would inevitably fall to the floor. The brothers grabbed the inspector under the arms and all three headed towards the exit. The guest raised his head - right on the threshold of which stood a specialist who looked at him with a smile.

- Can we go through? - Shinoda turned to him.
- Yes, yes, of course, - and the silver-haired man stepped aside.

When they found themselves in the corridor, the Japanese released Galbraith, and he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Impressions from the computer dream reading session filled his head. The inspector stood there for several minutes, then straightened his jacket and looked at the specialist and the Okamura brothers standing nearby. They seemed to be eagerly waiting for him to share with them his thoughts on their invention.

- Well, gentlemen, - Galbraith said slowly. - It was great, I'll tell you!
- How would you describe what you saw? - Shinoda asked automatically.

Ichinose's face shone with happiness - he, as Galbraith understood, was very pleased to hear praise for the work to which he had a hand.

- It can be compared to an action-packed movie, - the policeman honestly admitted.
- That is an interesting point! - the specialist exclaimed and raised his finger up.
- What? - Galbraith stared at the silver-haired man.
- If Adrian Montesi had not dropped out of the institute, he would not have failed to take advantage of your idea, - his interlocutor explained.
- Why do you think so? - the inspector did not understand these words.
- So that you know, - continued the silver-haired. - Montesi dreamed of directing movie pictures as a child, but his parents wanted to raise an engineer, so he reluctantly had to go against his desires.
- Curious, - the inspector scratched his moustache.
- I believe that Montesi still has the thought in his head that he should not have obeyed the will of his parents, - said the specialist.
- Hmm... - Galbraith lost in thought.
- Because this explains why he so easily transferred his project into the hands of the Japanese professor, - the silver-haired man finished his speech.

Yes, Galbraith thought, people are funny - the genius, the inventor of the eternal supercomputer, had such a trivial complex that ultimately forced its owner to renounce the invention. The policeman looked at the Okamura brothers - they stood silently and lowered their eyes.

- So, you think, - the inspector turned to the silver-haired man. - What this supercomputer of yours be used to create movies?
- Pourquoi pas? - the specialist exclaimed again in French. - It would be nice if we taught D.O.O.R. display his dreams on celluloid tape in the form of a series of images, then we will give this material to some film studio, which will record the voice acting and edit the film!

Ichinose Okamura joined the joke. Young Japanese assistant said, that their tape will be gladly accepted by some American studio, who is trying to save every cent on on making its motion pictures, than they always successfully foxed its viewers.

- I am sure that the film, shot by a supercomputer, will break records at many international film festivals, - the silver-haired man continued with a crazy gleam in his eyes.
- And when critics appreciate the film, it is possible that it will even be shown on cable television, - Shinoda said.
- Gentlemen, do you honestly believe this? - Galbraith couldn't believe his ears.
- No, we're just joking, - the specialist immediately took on a serious expression.

Galbraith could not help but admit that these scientists had a good sense of humour. And the way they phrased their jokes only reinforced his opinion of how ahead of its time their invention was. "A certain D.O.O.R. that will bury the movie industry", he thought. It is clear that the last word will not belong to the supercomputer itself, but to the audience, but the media love to dramatize events.

Thinking about the film industry, an idea came to Galbraith's head - what if it suddenly happened that this entire adventure that he had experienced was suddenly decided to be filmed? Standing in the metal corridor of the underground institute, the inspector began to turn over in his head what transformations his ill-fated story could undergo if it fell into the trembling with impatience hands of filmmakers - as he was sure, these would definitely be the guys from Hollywood.

Obviously, the main location from the not very famous city of Portland would be moved to New York - for some reason these hard workers from Los Angeles really liked this long-suffering city. England would have been completely removed from the plot because the producer would have decided to save money on filming in London. Surely they would not be too lazy to cast Belmondo for the role of Galbraith himself - after all, this actor could work miracles, and any, even the most ordinary characters in his performance came to life and acquired a depth unprecedented on paper. The inspector wondered how critics would react to the participation of a French actor in an American film?

Then Galbraith thought about Delia - her story on the screen definitely could not have happened without cuts, censorship and rethinking. The inspector immediately imagined how, through the efforts of American screenwriters, the modest little girl Delia would turn into some stern and gloomy boy or, even better, a twitchy teenager with complexes named Delian - in no case Dalien, so that the audience would not confuse this film with a not yet released fifth of the ridiculous - in his humble opinion - adventures of some devilish boy.

The Inspector had not seen any of the films in the well-known franchise, the fourth installment of which had been shown on cable television six months ago - four if exclude his time travel in a taxi cab - but he remembered the rumours among popcorn movie fans that in the extreme part, this naughty boy, for no apparent reason, acquired a sister - just as nasty and ridiculous as he himself. Or maybe it was the other way around, and that boy had no sister, and the girl could have been his daughter, who looked like two peas in a pod like her young father? Thinking about the kinship of characters in stupid movies, the inspector caught himself thinking that he was beginning to hate the entire American cinema in general and that franchise in particular.

The fact that Hollywood filmmakers would decide to replace Delia with a boy in the film adaptation of his adventures, Galbraith explained to himself by the fact that the death of a little girl - even if she was left behind the scenes - would cause a flurry of indignant letters from women with offended maternal feelings, which any studio, of course, would never allow and would try to avoid by any means necessary. But changing the gender of the central character could happen if the filmmakers decided to keep the plot of the film, in which the hero - who, as Galbraith thought, would definitely be played by Belmondo - must begin an investigation into the murder of a child. If these scoundrel filmmakers decide that the film should become a melodrama - and what, there will be savings on special effects, plus there will be no need to strain with a child actor - then the role of Delia will be given to some middle-aged, but well-preserved actress, and the entire plot will be rewritten in the standard Hollywood way, which involves an obligatory, albeit completely unjustified, love scene between the hero and heroine (usually ending in shading in the first ten frames).

Then the whole plot will be redone beyond recognition, reducing the story to a banal detective story, where the entire timing of doctor Baselard - a young and handsome gynecologist, or better yet, a simple dentist - will play the role of another suspect, who in the denouement Belmondo will pathetically kill with a couple of shots from a police Colt. And there won't even be any talk about Delia's death from cancer - more precisely, from an attempt to cure her of a disease very similar to it - the character played by an adult actress will live until the very end and in the final frames will connect her lips with Belmondo's lips , and these two will kiss to a mawkish melody played by a symphony orchestra - after all, the fashion for synthesizer music for films remained in the eighties.

With the change in Delia's age, the problem with trying to adapt Jordan Thurlow for the screen is immediately removed - because this very ambiguous character with a questionable moral character is too subtle so that his story does not cause rejection from the audience at best, and at worst - sharp criticism of the director, whom they will begin to accuse him of allegedly indulging pedophiles, even though in reality this is far from the case. Well, or, Galbraith thought, Jo will also be changed gender, and some fool will appear in the plot who will fight with adult Delia for the heart of the attractive protagonist and cast languid glances at him with a strange smile.

Although no, the inspector decided, the filmmakers would take an easier path and mister - or missis - Thurlow would simply disappear from the plot, because the extra plot emphasis in the film would be completely meaningless - why spend a long and tedious time showing on the screen an idiot who hates the main character, if you can just limit yourself to a short phrase from Belmondo , by which viewers will understand that his hero had in the past a fleeting relationship with the daughter of some journalist, and the appearance of Delia in his life awakened in him a long-extinguished interest in women - such a detail will appeal to lonely bachelors over forty who are going to cinema in order to associate oneself with a courageous protagonist who, with the snap of a finger, puts the entire female cast of the film at his feet.

- Now you can go home, - the specialist's voice suddenly rang out.

The inspector flinched when the white-haired man placed a hand on his shoulder, which pulled him away from his thoughts regarding the potential film adaptation of his adventures.

- Well, finally, - Galbraith grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead. - I've already decided that I'm going to hang around here until the end of my days.

And the four of them headed forward - the silver-haired one in front, the Okamura brothers behind him, and at the very end Galbraith himself. He again had to trudge for a long time along the narrow metal corridors of the underground institute, every now and then giving way to random employees who came across him on the way. It seemed that the penetration of the computer into the dreams affected the inspector like a psychotherapy session - now he was no longer worried about claustrophobia, and he felt free and confident.

Finally they stopped in the hall, where at that time there was no one. The silver-haired man walked forward and pressed the elevator call button.

- What, now you'll let me go up like normal? - Galbraith still remembered the silver-haired man's phrase about elevators.
- Now there is no need to go up the spiral staircase, - the specialist answered without noticing the reproach.
- We called a taxi for you, - Shinoda addressed the guest.
- When you reach the surface of the earth, you will have to wait a little for the car because the institute is far from the city, - Ichinose warned.
- Well, thank you... - Galbraith hesitated slightly. - Friends! - and he shook hands with both brothers.
- Yes, by the way, - the silver-haired man who was standing at the elevator raised his finger again. - Indoors, we hung the fur coat on a hanger in advance.
- What are you talking about? - the inspector did not understand.
- It's winter outside, and you're dressed lightly, - the specialist looked at Galbraith with warmth that was atypical for such an elderly man.
- Okay, - the policeman nodded slightly.

The massive elevator doors slowly opened, and Galbraith's heart suddenly sank - it seemed to him that his entire future fate would depend on this trip. Taking one last look at the gray-haired man and the Okamura brothers, he stepped into the opened doorway, and the doors closed behind him. The inspector had been waiting for the moment when he would leave this institute for so long, but now, when he was riding in the elevator, he felt uneasy because everything that was happening was like some kind of strange dream. In addition, he felt an almost superstitious fear that the elevator might get stuck between floors.

But soon the elevator car stopped moving, and when the doors opened, Galbraith went out into the same room where the specialist and Manabu met him. After walking a few steps, the policeman noticed that there was no longer a single white coat on the hanger, but the fur coat that the gray-haired man had promised was hanging, which Galbraith immediately put on. The clothes fit him just right, except that the sleeves were a little short. I wonder, he thought, who owned this fur coat - the gray-haired man or one of these Japanese? In any case, this did not bother the inspector much, who, having passed through the double wooden doors, found himself on the street. It was night, the snow was falling incessantly. The inspector shivered and raised his head up. Inhaling the cold air, Galbraith came to his senses and, looking around, saw the lights of an approaching car ahead of him. There could be no doubt - the Japanese kept their promise.

Galbraith, unexpectedly for himself, suddenly felt such a surge of strength that he wanted to sing, and he, slowly stepping forward, began to go over in his mind the songs that had sunk into his soul. He remembered how, back in Portland, he had seen a German film in a bootleg theater, the end credits of which played a song that he remembered then because it was in English. Putting his hands in the pockets of his fur coat, Galbraith began to hum her words.

- Lonely presence, damaged the work, You can't, uh... - he stumbled. - Everything the God...

The inspector very quickly abandoned this matter, realizing that he did not remember the exact words of this song. But he was aware of that it was sung about a man who played Lord God, tried to build a new world. Be that as it may, melody of this song - which, as the inspector remembered, was played on the piano - remained forever in his memory. So Galbraith gave up trying to sing the song and just played it in his head, watching the car lights approach...

Absolute void.