"Escaped," Dwyer reported, panting heavily. "He jumped over the fence."
"Where did the trail end?"
The detective waved his hand, as if the Commissar could see everything directly from the attic.
"Around the corner, at the very end of the street, a grocery store. This is where the tracks break off."
Dwyer and the witch found Nathan at the window when they broke into the attic. But it was too late. The only thing the commissar expected, ordering to start the chase, was that this wretch would still fall somewhere or the witch would overtake him. But in the end, a man so beaten up cannot jump out of the window, jump over the fence and run away...
Or he is not a human. Because how could he so evaporate in the middle of the street?!
"Would you jump?" The witch asked.
The Commissar thoughtfully measured his distance to the ground.
"I would jump. But not with broken ribs."
"Did you break his ribs?" Jen admired.
"I? No. I thought you…"
"No! You said - knock out a name from him, and not all the memories, starting from childhood!"
"F*** you!" Nathan growled. The bastard had played him like a baby!
"And he stole the towel," said Dwyer. "Why should he?"
"Of course he stole!" The witch snorted. "On the towel is his blood, he could not leave it to us!"
"And on the floor?" The commissar asked quickly. Jen shook her head.
"It is very diluted with water and has already absorbed in the dust and boards."
"Strong bastard," Brennon said through set teeth. "You can't tell by sight," he raked the shreds of clothes with his foot. "Is there blood here?"
"There was," the witch said. "I'll pick up and check in the lab."
"Sir, do you think he is the Strangler?"
"Now I don't know," the commissar muttered and started down the stairs, holding onto the wall. Since this critter killed Grace, then, therefore, he released the the ifrit. But why?! Why first release and then lock?! And the Strangler would not give out the secret of the cipher. Or would he? Who knows, these crazy freaks...
But this is most likely not the Strangler, Brennon thought grimly. While Dwyer was packing everything that the witch had removed from the fugitive, Nathan sat down at the table again and laid out the books in alphabetical order in front of him.
"Raiden! Do you know the Elladian alphabet?"
"Alpha, beta, gamma, delta..." the witch began, and the Commissar pushed her a pencil and paper:
"Write. And the word "nothing", if you know."
Signing the numbers under the first nine letters and designating "nothing" as zero, Nathan moved the books in the same order as the groups in cipher. It turned out two lines - eight and four volumes each.
"So what?" Jen asked skeptically. "Is that his first and last name? And how are you going to recognize them?"
Then she caught him. The commissar stared blankly at the books, feeling only the growing pain in his head. They were all of different thicknesses, of different authors, of different genres... The first book was "Battles of the Hundred Day War" by the General Lincoln, and behind it were "Opals of Your Eyes". And then "Utopia of God 's world" in the gift edition - why?
"Pack them all," Brennon surrendered. "This is not for my brains. Let Longsdale sort it out. Put it in the pillowcase in the same order, since it's important for something."
The witch nodded and went into the bedroom. The Commissar folded the books in two piles, ran his gaze from bottom to top, from top to bottom, let out a stifled cry and grabbed his notebook. When Jen appeared on the doorstep with a disgruntled "Well, what is the matter with you again?", he poked her in the nose with a piece of paper, on which he finally made his guess from the first letters in the names of books: "boutique Moon".
8th January
Miss Thay sobbed softly and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "The Love among the roses" (in three volumes!) ended so heartbreakingly that she shed streams of tears over it for the second day. Margaret angrily poked a needle into the embroidery. Uncle, although he kept his word, without saying anything to mom and dad about her night walk, still sowed confusion and doubt. In the evening, the girl had to endure a much more severe interrogation by her mother, the result of which was an invitation to tea for another candidate for grooms. Miss Thay was guarding the girl in ward so that she would not run away even before the tea party began. How untimely it all is!
"If someone frightened the Strangler eight years ago," the girl thought, feeling that she wasn't able to maintain empty small talk with some idiot, "it turns out that this person is still here, since the Strangler is afraid to finish begun. But who can it be? "
Angel couldn't lure the Strangler out of his hole, not even with the the ifrit, so thoroughly had the Man hidden himself. But maybe then it makes sense to look not for the Strangler, but for the one who scares him so much? It is a pity that she will not see Angel before evening, because the business card was too small to contain all her thoughts.
Someone scratched quietly and persistently in the dressing room's door. Margaret jerked so hard that she almost cut her finger with a needle, but, fortunately, Miss Thay did not see or hear anything, exuding tears over the book. The girl laid the embroidery, went to the dressing room and opened the door just enough to shake her fist at the slot. Warm, dry fingers immediately touched her hand.
"Go away!" Miss Sheridan hissed barely audibly. "I'm not alone here!"
There was a muffled murmur in response. Miss Tay yawned, dropped the book and fell asleep, leaning back in her chair. Margaret whisked into the dressing room, almost embracing Angel, staring at him incredulously and asked:
"My God, what happened to you?"
"Margaret, what did you tell your uncle about me?"
"Nothing," the girl gazed steadily at his face. Angel was paler than usual and looked haggard: his nose, cheekbones and chin painfully sharpened, his eyes on his thin white face seemed even larger and darker, his hands trembled hardly noticeably.
"What was he asking about?"
Margaret fluently retold him her conversations first with Raiden, then with the uncle. Angel sank down onto the chest. As she spoke, the strained expression on his face became softer, and his eyes calmer. In the end, a satisfied smile even flickered on his lips.
"Well, good," he muttered.
"What good? This guy is going to blackmail me further. Have you ever seen yourself in the mirror?"
"I saw. It has nothing to do..."
"So you didn't get a good look."
A dark eyebrow rose sarcastically.
"Insolent me, girl?"
"I'm afraid I won't catch you if you faint. How you've worked yourself up in just one night…"
"I was in Grace's house."
"So what?!" Margaret cried out eagerly, momentarily forgetting about his well-being.
"Father Grace left an encrypted message in the notebook that you found on your uncle's desk. I found the key to the cipher."
"Already?!" Miss Sheridan exclaimed, for the first time feeling something like respectful awe. Angel gazed at her from beneath his lowered eyelashes, but he was unable to hide the smug joy from her admiration.
"Yes. The key was hidden in Grace's library."
"What does it look like?"
"Like a library."
"What are you mean?" asked Margaret stunned. "You had to drag cabinets and books all night, and so you look like a slave from a colonial plantation?"
"No," Angel said rather dryly, "I look like that because I met your uncle there."
Margaret froze for a moment in amazement, once again looked from her interlocutor from head to toe and flushed with rage.
"What did he do to you?!"
"Nothing that would surprise me. In fact, only the butler worked."
"Really," Margaret hissed. The burning desire to pour boiling oil over this toad only intensified when Angel closed his eyes and muttered:
"Don't worry so much. I have a way to recover quickly, it just takes a lot of energy."
"Just? You look like a skeleton!"
"Nothing is given in magic for nothing, Margaret. If you are healed, then either at the expense of some sacrifice, or at the expense of your own organism. So I need your help."
"Do you need my blood?" The girl asked stammered.
"Oh no, why understand everything so literally!" Redfern laughed, coughed and asked: "And you would give?"
"Well, not all, of course," Miss Sheridan answered practically. "And how much do you need?"
"I need you to go somewhere."
"Oh no!" Margaret bit her lip. What a bad luck! Well, by golly, it would be better if he asked for her blood! "I can't leave the house right now."
"Why?"
She had to explain about the consequences of her uncle's visit, one of which included tea drinking with a possible bridegroom, God damn he. Angel thought for a moment.
"And in the evening? If you are a good girl, will you persuade your father to take a little shopping trip in the evening?"
"Yes, but..." Margaret frowned, puzzled. "But won't he bother me if I start doing something..."
"No. I want you to have a companion because I..." Angel fell silent with vexation. "Well, as you see, I'm not too capable of protecting you now. But do not be afraid, you will go to a not very dangerous place."
"But if it's not dangerous, then why don't you go there?"
"It will be very strange if I go there alone, in front of everyone," said Angel, "because this is a ladies lingerie store."
***
"The boutique Moon," Longsdale read. "Ladies' joys: stockings, garters, corsets... hm... panties."
"Going crazy, what a choice," the witch grunted. "Only one thing surprises me - why are we still not there?"
"Because I don't have the habit of trusting the words of the pyromaniac killer," Brennon turned up the cracker's property. "Well, what do you say? Is this the weapon of your colleague hunter?"
The consultant tested the blade with his fingertip, examined the revolver and the bullets to it, and frowned thoughtfully.
"Actually," he said finally, "we use such weapons, but that... is not quite like that."
"In what sense?"
"It... well..." Longsdale hesitated, as if trying to explain something incomprehensible to a mere mortal. "Our weapons are not for humans. And this is done for the human hand."
"You want to say that your dagger can harm a human? But how?" the commissar's imagination instantly drew a trihedron, stabbing the owner.
"Conventional weapons are useless against evil spirits and often against undead because there is no magic charge in them," the consultant explained after some thought. "But human cannot withstand a strong magical current. It is like a lightning bolt. I'll survive, but you..."
"I see. This means that this critter could not stole them from another hunter."
"Steal - yes, use - no," Jen corrected. "But he's either damn good at magic, or he's got a great provider. The ring," she rolled a thin ring, "can ward off almost any spell. The medallion makes the wearer invisible to the undead. A clock..." she snapped the lid off and licked voluptuously. "I would not refuse such."
Brennon rubbed his temple. The head was still sore, and the shooting pain in the temples was reinforced by the appearance of a witch with a beard and mustache, calmly talking about herself in a masculine way.
"They determine the species, the power of evil spirits or undead, the distance to it, the direction of its movement," Longsdale said. "Can... can I buy them back from the police later?"
"There is still no sense in his actions," the Commissar said. "Why first sacrifice Grace in order to fetch the the ifrit from other side, but immediately after that lock it in the church? Does anyone understand the essence of these actions?"
Longsdale and his butler looked at each other.
"Well, theoretically, I would suggest..."
"Based on the fact that people are mostly idiots," Jen interrupted the consultant, "our pyromaniac cracker could thus lure the Strangler out of his den."
Brennon sighed heavily. That is why he did not like the vigilantes.
"And why did he defend the Sheridans, and not Farrels?"
The witch glanced at the Commissar and immediately averted her eyes. Nathan was wary.
"He scared off the the ifrit from your sister's house, but he didn't have the strength to repeat it when the evil spirit sprang upon Farrels," Longsdale answered calmly. "In a long confrontation with evil spirits, a human has little chance at all."
"I should have broken his leg," Brennon said through set teeth after a short pause. "Then I would have time to ask him a lot of interesting questions."
"But I did offer!" The witch snorted. The commissar made a faint tremor. It's impossible to get used to it! Moreover, the low hoarse timbre of the voice almost did not change.
"Okay. What else do you have there? You definitely want to say something about the pyroman and the Sheridans."
"Well, how do we know that he exactly defended them?" Jen suggested. "What if his goal was something else, and the defense was just a side effect?"
"For example?" The Commissar frowned.
"Well, for example, he wanted to bind you with obligations, a debt of gratitude."
"Um," Nathan was already thinking about this: hand on heart, Martha, Joseph, and their entire family owed their lives to this tough. And yet, yet...
"Can't you find out his name?" He asked hopefully. "Not at all?"
"Not at all," Longsdale answered softly. "If I only meet him in person and apply telepathy. The best I can do is check if it's his blood on Lynch's cap."
"Let's ask the hound again," the witch intervened. Just at that moment, Regan (pale and slightly trembling) and the hound returned to the Commissar's office. The detective returned the cracker's handkerchiefs and dabbed his sweat on his forehead.
"Well?" Nathan asked. Paw shook his head negatively.
"A-as far as I underst-tood, sir," Regan stammered out, "the d... the hound did not find traces of this man on the evidence left-t by the Stranglers. Not on the cloth-thes of children, nor on anything els-se."
"So it wasn't him," the Commissar concluded disappointedly. "Paw, are you sure?"
The hound nodded. The detective stacked in a chair and mumbled something about the Pater Noster.
"Okay," Brennon handed Longsdale a folder. "That's all Dwyer digged around the boutique. It opened in the fifty-first year, the owner, Henry Neil Junior, inherited the store from his father in the sixty-second. Family business is flourishing. Now it employs two sellers, a clerk, a cleaning lady, a loader, an accountant and a lawyer who is responsible for contracts with foreign suppliers. Oh, and another courier boy. Here is a list of surnames."
"They don't sew anything?" the consultant specified.
"Thank God no. Otherwise, we would have to dig through the sewing workshop, and at the same time check all the employees. No, the Neils only buy finished goods from manufacturers, plus accessories such as hooks, laces, bows and other rubbish. If the products need repair or alteration, then they hire a seamstress."
"Why are they wearing this?" The witch asked, looking at the fair brochure.
"Who?"
"The women. This is inconvenient and ... and why do they need petticoats if they already have an upper one?"
The hound snorted. Regan went into a strangled cough.
"It's necessary," Brennon explained vaguely. "Well, gentlemen, we will take it. Regan, get Dwyer here and ask the chief for backup. About seven or eight guys is enough for me. Longsdale, can you recognize the Strangler?"
The hound poked his face in the commissar's leg and proudly bared his fangs. All that was missing was a paw in the chest.
"Well, you'll recognize," Nathan decided; Regan rose and staggered away. "Will this Strangler bewitch my people, like those bandits in a tavern?"
The consultant exchanged a glance with the butler.
"Hard to say. Depends on how strong he is and what spells he wields. I will take care of protecting your cops.
"Fine," Brennon nodded. "Okay, to the point. We will only have one attempt."
***
The chubby-wubby moon smiled invitingly from the sign. Margaret sat in the carriage and fiddled with the muff. Redfern forced the girl to repeat his instructions until he was convinced that she remembered everything to the last word. Miss Sheridan repeated them to herself during a tea party (and, it seems, her detached appearance made a very depressing impression on the groom); and during the trip; and now...
Angel has said many times that nothing is given in magic just like that: in order to receive something, you must give either a sacrifice or a part of yourself. That is why sorcerers are limited by the powers that they can spend on spells. So what will the Strangler do to violate this law - and take without giving anything? After all, is this not the key to omnipotence - to receive anything, knowing in advance that you will not have to pay?
Margaret pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding so fast and hard that it was hard to breathe. What a strange expression was on Angel's face when she asked him about it: as if that was what he secretly wanted to hear from her, but why?
"Yes," he replied, "for the sake of this they cause evil spirits from the other side - to receive omnipotence. They do not want to pay for magic, they want to receive everything for nothing. And a nothing for a Strangler is for fourteen other people's lives. Therefore, be careful."
The girl shrank. No one knew what the Strangler was capable of, and Margaret was no longer comforted either by Angel's unspoken praise or his concern; what's the use of them if the Strangler clings to her throat?
"Well, are you going?" Edwin asked impatiently. Margaret woke up.
"And you? Aren't you going to accompany me?"
"To the ladies laundry shop?" the older brother blushed deeply. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Why not? It's dark and scary on the street!"
"On what street? You are two steps from the sidewalk to the porch!"
"Please, Eddiiiie!" Margaret whined, clutching his hand. "Well, is it so difficult for you? At least to the door and wait for me on the porch!"
"Peggy, Peggy," the brother squeezed her hand, "are you afraid of the one who burned the Farrells?"
"Yes!" tears came to her eyes luckily. "I'm afraid!"
"Then why did you beg in our father for a trip to the store?"
"Because at home, too, scary, and shopping reassure me!"
Edwin blinked in surprise.
"God," he muttered, "are you, women, all like that? Okay, let's go."
"And wait?" Margaret sobbed.
"Yes."
"What if I scream?"
"Why are you going to scream at the lingerie store from?"
"Please, Eddie!"
"Oh, good, good."
He gave her a hand and even gallantly brought to the door, looking around every now and then, as if he feared that a visit to such a place would cause irreparable damage to his male reputation.
"All, further herself," Edwin hissed. Miss Sheridan touched the doorknob. Fingers suddenly trembled. Lord, there's the Strangler! Why, well, why should she go there!
"A cowardly fool!" She pressed the door, and a bell rang in the store, from which Margaret struck a cold sweat and a small tremor from head to toe. "That's how he would be proud of such a tearful rag now!"
The intimate twilight inside seemed to the girl cave darkness. As soon as she crossed the threshold, two sellers rushed at her out of this darkness like a kites. Having examined in their squawk the familiar "Good day, miss!", "What do you want?" and "Latest novelties from the Continent," Margaret was finally able to pull herself together.
"Oh, I haven't decided yet," she cooed. "I'll see what I choose."
The number one seller brought her a shopping basket while the number two seller quaveringly examined Mr. Sheridan's business card, which contained a very respectable address, to which an invoice should be sent. The girl took a breath. They behaved in the same way as all the sellers hitherto encountered by her. It was reassuring.
"Well, why not?", she put a bag with silk stockings and a box with garters into the basket. A skein of corset cord is also useful. Sellers faithfully curled around, pushing and recommending everything that is possible. Margaret put her reticule in the basket.
"Forgive me," she said, fluttering with eyelashes, "you embarrass me somewhat," and went to the lockers with panties.
Sellers are behind. They still did not take their eyes off her, but at least retreated a decent distance. The girl launched her hand into the reticule, pulled out a bag of powder, torn the corner and let it trickle down to the floor, covering the sabotage with crinoline. The silver powder stretched out like a snake and zigzag slid behind the counter. Margaret reached for the pantaloons and accidentally looked out the window.
"Aw, Christ!"
In front of the store the police van stopped, from which her uncle jumped out and confidently headed for the "Moon". Two policemen rushed to each exit. Seeing the Sheridans' carriage, the commissar slowed down, and then stopped altogether and tried to burn through the windows with a blazing gaze like that of a dragon. Margaret nervously yanked on herself pantaloons and took refuge behind their silk folds. Thoughts swept like cockroaches. Even the fact that one of the sellers might turn out to be a Strangler did not cause such a panic as the sudden appearance of an uncle.
A silver snake, meanwhile, described a circle around the store and, in front of Margaret's eyes, ducked into the slot under the door that led into the utility rooms. The sellers were finally distracted by police uniforms flickering outside the windows; and then the front door began to open. Miss Sheridan threw down the pantaloons and darted to the back room, jerked the handle, in desperation thinking that if it was locked... the door suddenly succumbed, and the girl scurried into it like a mouse into a hole.
It was not a back room, but a small landing. One stair-well led down to the basement, and the other, covered with a wiped carpet, went upstairs to the second floor. The silver powder snake has already climbed half the stairs. Margaret grabbed her skirts and froze. She finally realized that at any moment she could be face to face with the Strangler, and even in private. Clutching her hand to a wildly pounding heart, the girl stepped back to the door... and at that moment a muffled uncle roar came to her. Margaret rushed after the silver snake, that was turning up the second flight of stairs.
A small narrow window lit the staircase. Looking briefly at it, Margaret saw the consultant and his hound. Looks like they intended to enter the store through the basement. The girl caught her breath for a moment from one look on tall and handsome Mr. Longsdale, her face drenched in a hot blush.
"If he comes in, he'll probably hear me scream," Miss Sheridan thought suddenly, and it reassured her. Mr. Longsdale looked as if every day he tied the Stranglers in a knot, without any magic. Inspired, Margaret hurried to the second floor.
A silver snake darted between three doors on the second floor. Apparently, the Strangler often went from room to room, and the potion could not take an exact trace. Angel warned about this and therefore handed the girl something like a piece of greenish melted glass.
"A stone after a cold fire," he explained succinctly. "Each spell bears the imprint of its creator. Since the stone touched this spell, the trace remained on it."
Margaret took a shard from the reticule and laid it on the floor. The snake immediately wrapped itself around it and froze like a pile of powder, as if in thought. The girl bit her lip.
"Well, hurry up!"
The powder stretched into a string and flew with an arrow under the first door on the left. From below, voices came to Margaret - the protesting screams of the salesmen and, worst of all, the uncle's angry voice. The girl shuddered, gathered all the remaining courage into a fist and, as if into a maelstrom, rushed into the room and slammed the door behind her.
It was a cramped closet with a small window, crammed the racks with the accounting books, like the ones Margaret saw in the office of her father's factory. At the desk opposite the door sat a man filling a ledger. Hearing the door slam, he raised his head and looked in surprise at the girl.
"Lord..."
Margaret's heart suddenly froze. He was a man in his forties, thin, dark-haired and gray-eyed, with pleasant, rather subtle features. He sat with his legs outstretched, and a silvery snake coiled around them, scattered by a cloud of powder that settled on his boots and trousers.
"Miss?" The Strangler asked politely, put down his pen and stood up. "How can I help?"
"Oh, I... I..." Margaret lost her breath and was stupidly silent, clinging to the doorknob.
"You are not satisfied with our product?" The Strangler asked softly, extending his hand to her basket. "Then, I'm afraid you made a mistake at the door. I am an accountant, and all claims..."
He cut short the phrase and stared at Miss Sheridan. Through a benevolent calm came a harsh and mocking expression, and Margaret realized that he recognized her. However, he also did not lose his calm, and this frightened the girl much more than if he began to throw cold fire at her in rage.
"Ah so," the Strangler said quietly and slowly walked around the table. Margaret pressed the door as far as the crinoline allowed. "Small witch. And where is he?"
A long narrow knife slipped out of his sleeve. The girl's knees bent.
"Don't think about it," she hissed. "One cry - and the whole police will be here."
"Police?"
"Together with Mister Longsdale, their consultant. Do you know who he is?"
Judging by how hastily the Strangler backed away from the door, he knew. He listened sensitively and changed his face a little.
"You, rubbish," he said slowly, "brought them along specially, right?"
"You have to touch him," Angel said. "Surely, to his face or hand. Can you, Margaret?"
The girl let fall the doorknob. Even if he runs away from the police now - and what can they do to him? - it doesn't matter if Angel can find him.
"He will die in agony," Redfern promised her. Margaret took a small step towards the Strangler.
"Maybe we'll try to come to an agreement?"
"We will not try," the man hissed, and quickly muttered something. The medallion that Angel gave her was heated under her dress and burned her skin. Margaret gasped weakly. Hurry steps were heard on the stairs. The strangler smiled knowingly.
"Of course, he took care of your protection from magic. All right," he rushed to Margaret. The girl screamed loudly, hit with the basket his knife hand, and before the Strangler could recover, slapped him in the face. He cried out briefly and grabbed her by the elbow. The steps on the stairs turned into a trample of feet.
"Oh hell!" The Strangler threw Margaret at the door; it swung open, and the girl flew into her uncle's arms, almost knocking him down. The commissar caught the niece, crashed into a consultant with a double weight, and nearly kicked downstairs with the hound.
"Peg!!" the uncle howled, barely regaining his balance. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
The hound looked at Margaret, let out a fierce roar and was the first to burst into the office. Mr. Longsdale rushed after him and immediately shouted in disappointment:
"Run away!"
Miss Sheridan darted to the office, breaking free from her uncle. Finally, she could make out a narrow door that lurked between two cabinets behind the back of a chair. The hound hit the door with all its weight, but it only creaked. The hound rolled back, took a run, and tried again. The door buckled, but held. The hair on the hound stirred and flared like a flame. Margaret gasped loudly.
"Don't!" the commissar shouted. Mr. Longsdale raised his hand and muttered a spell in an undertone. A sparkling ball flew from his fingers and knocked out the door from the wall with the frame. It ridden with a crash along the cramped staircase and shattered into pieces, hitting the second door below. The hound, without ceasing to flame, rushed down the stairs, the consultant followed him, and the Commissar darted to the window.
"Damn it!"
The window looked out into a narrow short alley between two houses, from which it was easy to run out onto busy Rocksville Street or the no less crowded Maple Boulevard and get lost in the crowd, not to mention how many cabs were here. Margaret sighed contentedly and sank down onto the windowsill. The palm was still burning from the slap in the face, and it is unlikely that the Strangler would stop to shake off the mark, even if he noticed it.
The commissar turned to his niece. The girl managed to squeeze an innocent smile.
"So," uncle said through gritted teeth, "I will give orders to the policemen, and then you and I, young lady, will talk heart to heart."